


And sometimes a crumb from your table

by tco



Series: All blessings counted, no countings blessed [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s06e22 The Man Who Knew Too Much, Genderbending, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mentions of Rape, Post-Episode: s06e22 The Man Who Knew Too Much, Psychological Horror, Season/Series 07, Sexual Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, and, deancentric, emotionally complicated verging on unrequited, endless battle for agency, kind of mpreg, more than canon typical violence, no not abo, with a side of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-01-28 17:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12611572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: Dean's body is full of warnings and erased sheets of paper. He doesn't know what game he is playing anymore, but he can't roll off the chess board. New players arrive, more than Dean's aware of, more  than a chess board should have. He watches Castiel's mood swings  come  and go, ponders about doors closed and doors opened. Something is going on, that he can be sure of.Meanwhile, Castiel loses his name. And even Pavlov's dogs come back to bite him in the ass. His eternity is numbered, after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Super super grand grand ultra thanks and gratitude and reign over 6 us states of choice go to @babybluecas cause it's yet another story i'd never manage to pull off without your support and patience <3.
> 
> Title of this story is taken from the lyrics of Kayah & Bregović's "Jeśli Bóg Istnieje" ("If there is a God") because it's, like, the Biggest Mood for this verse.

_"Are there hunters on this planet?"_

_"No."_

_"Ah, that is interesting! Are there chickens?"_

_"No."_

_"Nothing is perfect," sighed the fox._

( _The Little Prince,_ Antoine de Saint Exupéry)

~~~~*~~~~

_**i.** _

It’s colder in this place than in the hall, surely than in the bedroom, hot and stuffy because of reasons he does not appreciate at all. His skin welcomes the chill, the lack of Castiel in its proximity. His back, pressed against the bland blue tiles of the wall, feels nearly relieved. Dean shuts his eyes and slides down, part in tiredness of the body, part in the exhaustion of his soul, which, at this point he’s experiencing on a cellular level. If he’s being over dramatic, he doesn’t care. Hard not to call his life a telenovela, anyway. Cas might’ve as well already legally changed his name to Isaura by now and simply failed to mention that. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.

So quiet here. Castiel did not need to spit many words at Dean to have that ugly patronizing voice keep ringing annoyingly in his brain, kind of like it did in that gas station all those years before. It’s just so nice to not be in imminent threat of listening to it again, at least for a little while, for however long he’s safely allowed to take to get himself pristine and holy for his husband God, so he could be with so much joy beheld and be fucked. He doubts there are any other reasons for that. Soon he’ll find out but not just yet. Now he’s tuning into the silence, savoring it.

And these doors, they’re the only ones in this house which have a lock that is specifically for Dean to use. Another small blessing. He counts those very carefully and cradles them like they’re something to hold dear, mindful of his words and actions not to lose them even if he loses everything else. He needs to be aware at all times that if he can count them, so can Castiel.

There is no small mercy in this house not accounted for. The realization hits him harder than he thought it might. If he could sink any lower down the bathroom floor, he would.

“Fuck you, Cas,” he grits through his teeth; deflated but not yet defeated.

The moment he starts to think he can never win this, not even in fifty years from now, is the moment he consigns this planet into death.

Because Ego McPowered-Up is simply too short-tempered to not drive this mud ball into the first fucking tree there is. He’s just that bad at driving. Dean has to stay here, mournfully alive, to yank the wheel last second as much as he would rather chew down a few handfuls of apple seeds. As much as he would gladly sign out permanently in this tiny square of solitude, secretly sliced under his knees and wilting away in the bathtub because it is the only fucking thing it is good for.

Who is he fucking kidding. Castiel’s wedding ring and his invisible strings would have stopped Dean even if he tried to pull a Miss Jones intro.

He begins to feel the floor tiles in his bones, even though this body is brand new and unfamiliar to him, it’s not twenty six anymore. He’s still stuck in a model that’s thirty three and has been thrown against walls and shit way too many times. The fact that Cas, regardless of whichever part of this house he’s currently haunting, is unrelentingly keeping Dean’s “disposition” at “two”, is not helping at all.

It’s a great moment for his mind to try and catalogue all these things that are off right now, and by great, Dean means totally uncalled for because damn it he was keeping that part buried away for hours for a reason, despite of what his hunter instincts and human experience were trying to tell him. But, tough shit, with no potentially lethal problem currently at hand and with no crying from the little squirt at the moment, it has slipped into his consciousness and isn’t willing to get the fuck out of his doorstep until Dean acknowledges it.

It’s a big, big problem, actually, now that the cat is outta the bag and Dean can’t help but listen to its meowing.

He’s sore, uncomfortably sore, in parts of his body that have no business being achy neither weeks nor days after being last violated. Only one explanation comes to mind and it hardly makes sense. Dean’s disappointed with himself for still remaining naive enough to feel surprised. What was he trying to accomplish, holding this monster to any standards at all? So many human casualties, so many manipulative leg-spreading done to him already just within the span of five weeks, and yet?

And yet Dean Winchester, the Consort Queenlike Fucking Idiot, was dumb enough to believe that for some reason (decency? Inevitably getting what he wants anyway? Years of friendship, maybe? Who the fuck knows) Castiel the All and, most of all, Dean-loving God would be at least minimally above violently raping him while he’s unconscious.

The saddest goddamn thing is that in the past days of his countless spells and wards, picket fence life there was nothing, absolutely nothing, solid enough to support that stupid conviction, and Dean knew it, but foolishly went for benefit of a doubt as if Castiel in any way deserved it at this point. As if giving it to anyone who he ever let close to himself and then got double crossed by wasn’t the exact thing that always, without a single exception and without abuse of trust, would come back to bite him in the ass so hard there was very little of him left to gather later.

He can’t wait to hear how Castiel spins it around, directly against Dean, in a cunning and disgusting mimicry of love, care and attention or whatever smash hit of an argument is supposed to play out fourteen consecutive times with just one single red herring distraction to make it look like Dean is nothing but a prude, scandalized bitchling and Castiel is, of course, a martyr for love and Dean keeps trying him like he’s Job.

That or he can always shrug and say Dean was well awake and begging for dick on his very own but weirdly doesn’t remember it now.

Or, if Sunshine doesn’t feel particularly chatty and understanding today, Dean guesses that as last resort, instead of flimsy explanations of any kind, he can always get his face smashed directly into year 3000 to learn the wonders of flying cars, colonization of outer space and his fucking place. As a possibility it definitely ain’t all that far fetched, considering how his technically first officially married day spent together began.

After taking all of this into brief consideration, he’s not even sure if there’s a point in bringing any of it up. Not that he trusts himself to be able to keep quiet because he doesn’t. What he is sure about is that he’s never felt dirtier in his topside life. It still doesn’t beat some of the rack’s biggest surprises or the first days playing the butcher, before his soul understood it’s not going to be tortured anymore and spiralled into euphoria. But it’s a very close second.

Dean collects himself from the floor to take the long due piss. Not feeling any better afterwards, he pulls the bathtub curtain and freezes in confusion if not anything else.

He just doesn’t fucking get it. Is this supposed to be a Winchester House ripoff? Some bad last name-based joke he doubts Castiel is capable of making on his metaphor-impaired own? What’s with the house remodeling?

Good to know the veiled bath-fucking threat wasn’t empty because the new tub is large enough to not turn bumping uglies into an issue of quantum physics and risk of a need for medical aid.

Speaking of which. What are the goddamn safety mats and railings for? Dean’s at a complete fucking loss. Is this supposed to help him not accidentally kill himself when he’s so far pregnant he develops his own orbit? Or is Castiel’s plan so considerate of the future it’s meant to keep osteoporosis at bay when he’s literally too senile to move without creating injury hazard?

Wow in a way that it is scary both regarding few months and five decades from now. But actually it might come in handy, since this is a moment where he can barely—

Oh fuck. That son of a bitch.

It’s for now. For all his days of misbehavior when every single step will be marked with regret and, hopefully, deep reconsideration of choices.

He just stares. Stares as he lets the water run; stares as he, void of any thought, frees himself from the dress and disgusting mormon porn underwear.

Temperature on the tiny screen doesn’t even budge beyond 97 degrees. Course it doesn’t. So much for boiling his old bones a bit into something akin to numb relief.

Dean sighs wearily and descends into the tub using the stupid railing but hating it every second as he goes.

“Guess I can’t make us into a mean chicken soup just yet, huh small thing? You think your other old man might actually be reading preggo lady magazines in his evil lair? I mean, what gives?”

_What’s a chicken soup?_

Dean isn’t sure whether to start with chicken or with soup. Maybe he’ll just start with the point.

“It’s a health bomb in a bowl, kid. Puts you back on your feet in no time, magic killing all the crap that bed-ties you and you feel so much better,” he explains as he sits down and stares at the control panel, wondering if he should take it for a spin, just for the sake of raising Castiel’s electricity bill at this point. Because of spite and nothing else. Maybe if Dean won’t take Castiel out of the game, capitalism will.

_You need chicken soup, mommy. It won’t hurt you anymore when you have it, mommy?_

There’s a pause. Silence of tiny monster baby cogs turning, thinking. Dean doesn’t remember what words are, in his mouth there’s just sandpaper and thorns. He looks at the surface of water again, livid that he can’t let it take him dead gone and away. It’s just not fair.

_...Can it stop daddy?_

He wonders if this is what his mother felt like: struck with ache and panic like a deer trapped in headlights, seeing that he, the child, was already deep in the family mud even though all she wanted to do was to keep him out. He remembers her face, the widest smile, the most cheerful tone, no light in her eyes, only tears.

“Oh, and it’s the only sort of food where chicken actually has a right to be and tastes well. It’s, uh, you eat that. It’s awesome. My favorite. Tell you what, sport. I bat my lashes real pretty at god-zilla and get you some if you behave.”

And he remembers her ways. Repeated to Sam, John’s binge after binge, hunt after hunt, until his baby brother would grow big and wary and buy it no more.

It beams.

 _I love chicken, mommy_ , it decides.

Yahtzee.

Dean laughs in small, desperate half hiccups and wants to die in a way he hoped he would never have to crave death again ever since Sam learned the truth.

“Sure you do, little rascal! Everybody loves chicken, because we eat chicken here, not people. Remember that for me, buddy.”

He can hear it babble happily: _chicken, chicken, chickennnnnn,_ just like temporarily excited human rugrats do. Except of feeling like he’s the worst person on Earth aside of his husband, he doesn’t much know what to do about it. It acts like a duck, it talks like a duck but it’s no duck. It’s at least a velociraptor. He can’t kill a fucking baby. But it’s a monster and he knows the rules. Maybe there’s a spell? There has to be a spell. If you can unmake a vampire, you can unmake… well, whatever the fuck this is, right? Before it feeds on non-chickens.

He leaves the kid to its innocent poultrious wonder and relegates his remaining scraps of energy to pretty himself up according to the newest standards of Amish Vogue. If he wants a lifetime supply of chicken, he well knows he’s going to have to earn it first. Just like the right to eat dinner in his father’s eyes. Except that this time, not by being a good hunter.

But by being good prey.

Dean decides it’s time to man up, grab the soap and think of England. As he lathers the bar in his hands, he closes his eyes. Nowhere it says he needs to actually see on what kind of a body he’s operating. Feeling it under the touch is mind-scorching enough. So it goes (and god, he really doesn’t like the fragrance of this soap). Thorough, deliberate and sharp with his movements because he needs to be clean, because he hates himself. He slows down at his chest to not have his lousy, swollen excuse for tits (apparently it would be a waste of luxury to shape him into a Victoria’s Secret model) hurt even more than they already do. Same with his aching abdomen, the space where his junk should be, his thighs--

Hold the fuck up.

He runs his hands carefully over his inner thighs again and again for good measure. Curses under his breath. It feels too delicate there, too smooth, even. Not like good old well-worn skin, but kind of… Dean opens his eyes and lifts his leg, supporting it on the edge of the tub, in hope that the muted bathroom lights will deliver enough of an answer. They do, although the “enough” is relative because living his life with injuries in stereo he knows what he’s looking at, but he still doesn’t know what the fuck, which obviously would be the point of the whole exercise. There are large patches of pink, just a tone away from the rest of his skin, visible only if one knows how to look and Dean sadly does. They’re shinier, more fragile, the soft gleam the only thing that makes the wrongness stand out at all. He gives his other thigh a cursory glance and yeah, same.

Something happened here, a lot of it, judging from the size. It healed but didn’t scar. Anything this large would leave much more ugly behind. And it would take time. This layer of skin is brand new. Other than that his legs are unscatched.

There’s no way to tell what went down. Or why Castiel made it happen and then just gone.

“I don’t get it,” he huffs in plain defeat as he rubs the sensitive skin over and over, his level of exasperation only that of facing a mildly annoying puzzle because his mind just doesn’t have the horsepower to allow him more.

He would throw up, but there’s nothing in his stomach, nothing. He washes his face and hair instead, infuriated over how troublesome this is with a cut that isn’t anywhere near close to his scalp. He’s got no idea how Sam survives this every other day.

Someone else in this house does the job for him now. Dean isn’t even allowed to do basic caretaking. His hands itch for it all the time like they know nothing but that. They don’t, at least not much. They only know how to kill and how to keep dead things living.

A knock on the door interrupts his silent grief.

Dean’s neatly folded anger spreads to the surface and leaks in tiny rivulets into the water he’s stupidly standing in, into his mouth.

“You weren’t so shy when you fucked me while I was roofied unconscious!” he snarls at the door. “Or when you burned down my legs and the insides of my cunt!” That’s a wild guess there but it makes as much sense as any. “So why the fuck do you play nice knocking, you fuck damn pharisee?!”

On the other side, silence stands still, swollen and thick like bad air. The voice that answers Dean isn’t Castiel’s.

“I’ve been sent here to assist you,” Nadya says with amazing calm as if nothing moved her at all. “He said you’re feeling unwell and might need help.” Dean doesn’t respond with anything so it gives her time to think. “If you got nausea or cramps I can make you some herbs and give you a few tips later on,” she adds softer, but not much softer in general. “I’ve been there.”

Dean grimaces as he dries himself with a towel as fast as he can. This pile of shit really fucking stinks and he’s sure that if a miracle won’t happen, he will literally shriek with steam any moment now, the boiling kettle that he is. He puts a fresh pair of underwear on, knowing the forties are gonna call and tell him to give it back. Forgoes the bra and slips into another shitty dress of paranoid length and eye-bleaching white. Must’ve been hospital gown inspired or something what with the need to tie it on the side to make ends meet. But then he thinks: no, it’s not that. It’s practicality. Just one dangling bit to pull for easy access. God ain’t got time for pulling long dresses up.

“It’s the jerk, he did this, until then I was fine,” Dean announces as he pops out the door with no warning like a very pissed off mole.

Nadya’s face tells him he’s gonna get whacked like one if he doesn’t shut up right now. He doesn’t know how she managed to form such a thin unimpressed line out of her at some point heavily injection-improved lips, but she just fucking went and did it like it’s no big deal. She’s mimic talented even if scarce, he’ll give her that.

Dean wonders what her life was before, sometimes. She’s so well preserved. Only when her face goes sour or when she thinks he isn’t looking, age and weariness crawl on her skin, letting him know she faced at least ten more winters than he did.

“Why haven’t you combed your hair?” she asks as she maneuvers him into a steady grip, leading him to the kitchen in tiny, considerate steps.

“Impossible,” Dean snorts bitterly.

Blink and you miss it, but there was a smile on her face. Dean won’t call her out on that.

“He’s in a good mood,” she says; a bit of spark in her voice, as if it was a secret just for him, a helpful tip.

Of course he’s in a good mood. Teaching his bitch a lesson does give that kind of an endorphin high.

“Guess then I can tell him to tone that crap down,” he tries to shrug and winces. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“Ask your garden, Dean,” she answers, aiming for not cold and failing.

That shuts him up.

Until he sees the kitchen.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**ii.**

Dean turns his head in Nadya's direction, but her face gives away nothing. She glances at him briefly but doesn't bother to offer an explanation unprompted. She doesn't even look interested in giving one prompted, if Dean wants to be honest with what he reads off her.

“Is there a point in asking you how long I was unplugged?”

“No.”

Oh, well. Back to assessing the changes it is, then. From large and a bit industrial, kept for exclusively meal-making purposes, the kitchen has, with no context so far, morphed into something ripped straight out of a family friendly cough syrup commercial or whatever it is that an Ikea catalog has in its extremely pricey rustic section for fucking losers. Now, the former nearly cafeteria wonder made space for a relatively small table with only two chairs in the heart of the room. Along the yellowish walls, there's a row of homely and bright wooden counters, accompanied by the obligatory hanging cupboards, retro looking stove and fridge in a really shitty pastel blue, fucking both, a too small sink and–

“Nad, for the love of fuck, why the china closet?”

Nadya, most likely processing the nickname and assessing Dean's fucking damage, looks at him bewildered in a Castiel-like manner. Dean kind of wants to beg her not to do that.

To Dean's endless surprise, she clicks her tongue in absolute disgust.

“You know what, I always hated kitchens like these,” she comments. “My first husband, he thought it's more traditional this way,” she adds, giving Dean a deep, meaningful look. “He thought that when you put a woman into that warm, soft kitchen, she stays there, becomes that.”

“I’m glad you said first. That implies you kicked him in the ass.”

“More or less. Joke’s on him anyway, I still don’t know how to cook,” Nadya says as she pulls the chair away to help him sit down.

Dean stops her. It just doesn’t feel right, this whole thing. “Thanks, but you don’t have to baby me here. I can help around, just tell me what needs to be done.”

“You look weak, you should sit down. I’m almost finished and if I asked you to fold napkins that would honestly be like babying you.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean groans, giving her a really pensive look. “Anything to get my mind off shit.”

“Fine.” She sighs. “Make the table, I’ll go get the cart. The cloth is in the low drawer, you already know where the porcelain is,” she decides and attempts to leave him to his own devices.

“The cart?”

“Yeah, the one with fancy looking covered dishes? And vignettes?” she adds with sarcasm that for a moment strikes not only her voice but also her face.

Immediately, she contains both with flawless artistry and disappears behind the tall fridge.

Only just as she opens it, Dean realizes that, obscured by the damn thing, there’s another door, probably leading to whatever was left of the real kitchen and pantry. Taking one more smarter look around the pulled outta Lucille Ball’s ass nightmare, he also notices that the doors leading to the dining room are closed.

This is the first time he even acknowledges them because they were always wide open.

Which is interesting because Dean’s bathroom aside, there is a rule not to close any doors in the house. The thing about doors is that if Castiel doesn’t want them somewhere and feels like keeping things (Dean) in, he just cancels the fucking doors.

He marks that problem up for later. It’s not like scanning every single room for exits has any point in the house where you’re always found.

Dean gets the tablecloth from the heavy drawer (really solid wood, that. Someone’s pulling all the stops with the love nest scenography), then puts it in place, feeling like he’s sprinkling a mountain of fire with a watering can.

As he decides the strategy regarding plates and silverware, Nadya comes back with the cart in tow. Turns out there really are vignettes. Turns out also Castiel apparently is going to be eating today, since there’s one mystery plate for him as well which, what the fuck.

“Why is this fucking thing closed? It’s never been closed. Is that what the extreme makeover is about? A distraction?”

“We can’t go in there anymore.”

“It’s the goddamn dining room, Nad.”

“This is the dining room now,” she says, pointing at the stupid table. “We literally can’t go in there. Something pushes us away. Like...” Nadya tries to explain, but the discomfort on her face and the too long pause make it clear she has no words to describe whatever is going on regarding the door.

He decides to make it easier for her and he cuts in.

“Lemme guess, magic?” Dean asks, knowing the answer and feeling very, very tired.

“Yes.” She nods, visibly relieved. “I don’t know anything else, but even if I did, I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you.”

“Okay, I get that. I’ll take it from here. You should go. Tell everyone to go to their rooms and not come anywhere near here under any circumstances. I have no idea what’s about to happen, but I can’t have anyone on the line of fire.”

“Dean, I have to set the dishes and serve the food, you can’t be doing that. This will affront him.”

“Yeah, I can. If Lord Bitch comes complaining, tell him it was my direct order and if he has beef with that, my face is always open for hitting and suggestions,” Dean says, as hard and final as he can. “Besides, I bet he carefully picked those pretty counters with a dream of fucking me on them in his mind, so you don’t wanna be here for this, either.”

Nadya cringes. “I really can’t.”

Her tone makes it clear that, god, she wants to.

“Jesus, tell him I asked for a baby boost herbal cocktail or whatever. Go get those herbs. And a chicken. Scratch that, chickens.” Dean can see he’s almost there, so he throws in an extra to convince Nadya she really should be as far away as it gets. “By the way, you think there’s any option to dance the fuck tango with getting him to repeatedly bang his stupid head against a cupboard or something?”

They both contemplate the counter set in uncomfortable silence, considering the possibilities. Dean is genuinely sorry for whatever visuals Nadya is currently having. He’s having them too. His empty stomach is begging him for a permission to throw up with anything, even itself.

“I’ll pass the message on. I’ll get the fucking chickens. But I’ll say you threatened me with doing something stupid to yourself, so know that if he asks, and he does ask, this will come back to you.”

“Good,” Dean smiles. “Now scram.”

Nadya sighs, nervous and deep, but she goes.

He stares at the table, at the precious porcelain everything and he decides that if Castiel thinks this is a fucking game, a fucking game he will get. Dean puts the plates on a heap close to the center of the table, but closer still to his chair, minimally out of Castiel’s reach, if it’s his hands and not psychic powers or some fucking tentacles he wants to use to grab them. Same with the labeled lidded trays and the silvers he just throws on a haphazard pile. And the stupid juice jug with both glasses, yeah that goes on his half too.

After making sure none of those can be reached from the chair on the other side, he sits down and waits, forcing oblivious innocence on his face. Gotta throw a little Stepford into this Springfield shit.

And grow a beautiful, beautiful garden of _this is so not what I wanteds_ in Castiel’s head. He wanted one for Dean after all, fucking didn’t he.

Things can bloom wherever they want. And no god has a say in that.

The feather rustle comes, unmistakable and obnoxious, somewhere behind him. Dean is too alert all the fucking time, in a permanent mode of expecting things to happen. For once, he doesn’t startle when the sound reaches him and is about to be followed by the inevitable. Because it’s gonna follow.

“Hello, Dean.”

And look at that, it did. Ten points for Deanffindor or whatever.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. Now sit your ass, your bowl of souls and babies’ blood is gonna get cold,” he groans.

Dean can’t see if Castiel is in any way offended or even affected. But, since walking past him he has the nerve to put a hand on his arm and kiss his cheek in lieu of a more entitled greeting (seriously? He just fucking washed himself now he’s filthy again), he’s probably not.

Didn’t even look at him, doing that. Like Dean’s a trophy taxidermy to pat out of habit, a good luck charm. In this particular moment Dean isn’t even sure which aspect insults him the most, but to not waste any time on thinking about it, he just goes with fucking everything.

Castiel takes his seat and if he notices the table setting power move, he doesn’t comment. This time his eyes do land on Dean, which is annoying, so Dean is kinda glad he went with everything, after all. Still hunched awkwardly in pain, he looks up to meet his eyes, shooting pure unfiltered empty nothing instead of daggers.

Castiel’s unreadable expression shifts into something soft and sad, like he’s in any way capable of hurting when he sees Dean like this. He snaps his fingers again and all the nausea, stomach pain and headache disappear as if they were never there. Dean feels himself going a bit limp as the long held strain escapes his body. He breathes out and in long, hard and thirsty for it because he finally fucking can. But if Castiel expects Dean to churn his butter in gratitude, he’ll have to go without.

“Better now, love?” he asks, low gravel of his voice so gentle as if he was trying to cradle water in his hands, maybe a bit contrite somewhere far, far beneath, but just about the result of his action, not the action itself.

Because he thinks that if the pain doesn’t exist anymore, neither does the trauma. Again.

And it’s just fucking unreal. Abstract. Because he can’t, simply fucking can’t, be serious right now. There are a few things Dean would like to say, but since they’re not his priority and it makes no difference whether he says them or not, he leaves it be.

“I have some questions, Castiel. Would you answer them? Dinner time chit-chat and all.”

Castiel lifts his brows in surprise as if Dean casually calling him that was an offense.

Well, offense away, bitch. That’s the whole point.

“Of course.You can always ask, Dean.”

“The hell is this?” Dean gestures at the table. “The fuck is that?” he points at the door.

“This is dinner. You need nutrition and I am making sure you will receive it. Keeping you company, too. I didn’t safehouse and marry you so you would end up sitting here all alone, obviously. It seems to affect your mood. You were lonely for so long, I won’t let this be. I made you a promise, haven’t I.”

This is not the thing that is affecting Dean’s mood and the husband of the year can shove that narrative where the sun don’t shine, no lube. Preferably right now.

“That?” Dean repeats, literally pointing with his finger at the door like a child.

Castiel turns to look at the door, as if genuinely and deeply curious about why this stupid innocent thing troubles Dean so much. Then he looks back at Dean, probably wondering what’s wrong with him this time.

“You didn’t like that room,” he explains plainly. “You were telling me it’s too spacious, too alienating, too ornate. You absolutely hated the piano, you wouldn’t shut up about it. I carved something more intimate and tender, to help you accept this place as your home.”

“Carved,” Dean echoes in disbelief, taking in the entire wooden extravaganza once more.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms affectionately, a small smile crawling up his stupid face, lighting his eyes with something that Dean can’t name but fucking really wants to punch. “Appliances aside, I made everything here myself. For you. I have a lot on my hands, but your comfort is worth sparing some time on carpenting. You helped make homes for so many people. I want to give you the same.”

Dean doesn’t even remember what comfort is and he prides his memory for being really fucking good. “My what?”

“You've lost so much. I know you liked that place so much more than any filthy motel excuse for a kitchen, more than any excuse for a life that you were forced to lead,” Castiel says and Dean has a problem making the connection regarding what secret place he is even talking about. Castiel is very good with exact locations. Unless he doesn’t want to be. Dean’s confused and, frankly, annoyed face unfortunately inspires Castiel to not shut up just yet. “Can't you see I'm doing all of this for you? Before, I wasn't strong enough. And I'm responsible for your losses. Both Sam and that place in Cicero. I have to bring this peace back to you and I'm really trying, but you... What's your problem, Dean?” he asks, gentle but exasperated. Tired, maybe. Definitely disappointed.

Dean on his end feels like he's been thrown into an alternate dimension because Castiel's act looks just that convincing and fuck, maybe he even believes that, but it doesn't change the truth that nothing of this is close to what he's really doing and what he's really doing has nothing to do with Dean’s comfort, nothing to do with his happiness, and nothing to do with making things up for him. The only common denominator perhaps is the bit about Castiel’s strength. He really fucking enjoys being strong and in control, now doesn't he.

The only information of actual value is that now Dean knows Lisa and Ben are a sore spot for his jealous God, so he needs to be extra careful around that. Noted.

“Oh, that's interesting,” Dean says, wanting to hit a sugary sweet note, but getting out something terribly uneven and far from collected instead. Well, shoot. “I'm so touched in all my soft places, honey. Without my consent, as usual,” he comments, tone successfully paler. “Now can you just fucking explain why is the dining room door locked? I thought we had a rule that explicitly says this house is meant to be open not just for you, but also for me.”

“You're changing the subject, Dean.”

“No, I'm not, you gaslighting asshole? You are! Literally you are the one bamboozling away from the original topic.” Dean sighs, soul heavy and worn and just tired. “What's behind the door, Castiel.”

“No,” Castiel says, eyes sharp, tone clipped.

“What do you mean: no?” Dean barks.

“You have forfeited any rights to this room, Dean. Whatever I have placed there is none of your business. To me your safety is much more important than your need to pry. The faster you accept this, the better for you.”

Someone fucking thinks the case is dismissed, huh? Well, no. Not today, ugly bitch, not today.

“Okay!” Dean says full of vigor as he gets up and marches straight to the door.

As he is just about to touch the knob, a surge of power sends him flying backwards right to the poor table, he thinks, but no. Looks like not this time: the table is spared, Dean not so much.

Castiel catches him flying and doesn’t even budge under Dean’s weight, which just never stops being weird.

“Oh, you sweet quick, quick little thing,” Castiel coos petting his arm and kissing the top of his head as he holds him bride-like and vice-like. “Will you ever stop being the first to walk into the fire, Dean? There is no one to save there on the other side, there's just harm. Here you can rest. You're supposed to rest.”

First of all: what? Secondly: no. Thirdly:

“Yeah okay, put me down.”

“I don't think so, Dean,” Castiel huffs amused as he carries him back to the table, to Dean's chair, but instead of putting him down, he takes the chair himself and promptly, hands too strong and too unrelenting, makes Dean sit down in his lap.

“This is humiliating,” Dean groans while he can still be coherent about this. “You made your point, now let me down. I don't want to sit so close to your dick when I really don't have to.”

“I know that and don't worry, this is just dinner here, although I think I personally enjoy it much better this way. And considering how your alternative is for me to temporarily decide where your legs are going to take you, I think you will agree that this really is nicer. Isn't it nicer, Dean?”

Castiel's body is too close, too present, too overwhelming. There's a weight crushing Dean’s chest, causing heart to stumble, ripping memories from the back of his head where he buried them deep and far and forever. Castiel's hot labored breath is all over his skin again, his mouth is too close to his eyes, his chest obscures everything he ever knew and he feels him moving between his legs again; like a snake, like something evil, something hungry, something old. Castiel's arms around his waist break him like baobab branches. He can’t.

“Please,” he whispers. “Castiel, let me down,” gets out even quieter.

Behind him, Castiel stills and freezes. Dean feels him let out a devastated breath. Castiel kisses his neck chastely. Dean still cringes.

“I'm sorry,” that dirty mouth whispers back, still touching him. “I promised to give you time. I promised to give you space... It's just so hard for me to have you and not have you. My hands never stop yearning, Dean. They love you so much, they let you go too many times, and I just don’t know…” He sighs, full of pain and being a psycho fuck. “But it's alright.”

No, it’s not. Doesn’t even have a chance for alright.

Castiel puts him down, evacuates the chair and has him sit again, alone this time. Dean silently watches him return to his own chair on the other side that will never, ever be far enough.

To be completely honest, right now Dean isn't exactly sure what Castiel said anymore, but the general gist he gets, so there’s that. He was too busy stowing his crap and having his heart and lungs work like evolution intended. That didn't quite work and back in his chair, solo, he's still reeling, knuckles white as he's clutching the table’s edge for purchase.

This is stupid. He shouldn't be acting like this, he’s been through so much worse and he absolutely hates being betrayed by his body like this. He’s been to Hell, this should be nothing. Doesn't look like nothing, doesn't feel like nothing. Fuck. He grabs the jug, he grabs the glass and forcing his hands to be still, he pours himself a glass. He will take whatever to wash away that raw, dry dying from its throat, whatever underworld joining rules that apply be damned. He drinks.

“Dean,” Castiel's soft voice reaches him from eons away, from underwater. “I can calm you down, if you need.”

“You can fuck right off,” Dean grits through his teeth. “You can't calm me down, you fucko. The only thing you have left to do is to finally lobotomize me once and for all, so either do that or knock it off, okay?!”

“I wouldn't do that to you!”

“The hell you wouldn't,” Dean spits. “All the things so far you said you wouldn't do, you've done, so just cut the crap.”

Castiel lifts both hands in surrender.

“I've prepared a surprise for you, for later. I really think that you will like this one,” he changes tactic, sadly in reality cutting none of the bullshit.

“Which country, Pizarro,” Dean says flat and dry; the orange juice didn't do anything — death is still in his throat, present and burning.

“None of them,” Castiel assures, defensive. “I promise this is going to be a pleasant surprise. Besides, I think you've been punished enough for today and that your transgression was not severe enough to call for a lesson like that.”

“Oh, but keeping you waiting with the Eucharist was,” Dean smiles hateful and dark.

“It's not that.”

“Tell that story to somebody else, church boy,” Dean snaps. “You know what? I'm beginning to understand why Lilith wanted none of that crap, why she left. Why Eve ate the fruit. You really are like your deadbeat daddy and like his first failed sandman.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven't unlocked that part of the story and you aren't going to because there is no point, you wouldn't understand. Now, can we eat if we really have to? Do you even have to eat?”

“Have to? No. But want to now, with you.”

Clearly already having had assessed the distance between his greedy monster hands and whatever severed baby head lies beneath the lidded tray, Castiel rises from his chair and gets himself the silver and his plate. He lets it all slide without a single word. Such a poster fuck for benevolence.

Dean gives Castiel's plate a curious look and he's very fast to regret that decision because what he sees is a gigantic, Sam-sized, slab of meat cooked so rare it’s closer to being freshly killed than cooked at all, still bleeding too profusely for something that has any right to be out of the grill. Dean hopes this is not human meat.

Not wanting to see Castiel devour this, whatever it is, he focuses on his own tray and he discovers a rather bland portion of fried poultry, with a side of potatoes and a salad. Fucking salad of all things, God dammit. This is an affront against everything he believes in and still sees as holy. He doesn't want to bother digging for his thing checking out what kind of atrocities made their way there, so he just fucking asks.

“Am I going to find some stupid pomegranate seeds there or are you not that hopelessly literal, huh, Hades?”

“Don't be silly, Deansephone,” Castiel strikes back. “You've been eating here already and I don't need a pagan loophole to have you stay. And before you ask, there is no pagan loophole to get you out, so I really think the best choice for you is to accommodate and learn to–”

“Yeah, no, dr. Strangelove. You really do not get to put me and the word _choice_ in one sentence. I would greatly appreciate it if you fucking stopped. Can you fucking stop?”

He doesn't expect an answer, so he just digs into his plate and feels glad that he doesn't at least have to look at Castiel's face anymore. Eating his portion of bullshit, he reminds himself of the little promise he made earlier today.

“By the way, Castiel, I have an announcement: I want to make a soup.”

“Soup?”

“Yeah, man. Soup.” Dean shrugs. “Is this kitchen shit working or is all of this just a stage prop exactly like your mercy?”

“No, Dean. All of this is perfectly operational. Including my mercy. Why would you want to make soup? We have skilled cooks that provide everything you might need or want here.”

Yeah, uh, Dean has this really powerful and annoying craving for a Coca-Cola ever since the stomach pain wore off, but he doesn't see one standing here?

“I always prepared it for Sam. It used to calm me down, gave me a feeling I'm doing something useful and helpful, you know. My mother used to make it for me, too. It's a nice memory, a nice tradition. I want to keep it in the family. I want to make soup for everyone here.” He leaves out the but not for you. “Can I make the soup?”

Castiel seems to think about it for a moment and he smiles, proud. “Yes, of course,” he says delighted and he can go fuck a barb-wired baseball bat for that. “It looks like you've really learned your lesson today, haven't you, Dean? Tell me what you need, I will have everything arranged.”

Is Dean supposed to bark at that or what? Is he a Good Boy?

“Yeah, you better get a pen and a piece of paper and write that down, I’ll tell you what I need.”

“I have a vast memory, Dean. I will remember. If it’s important to you, I surely won’t forget it.”

“You forgot how to be a decent person overnight.”

And that was kinda important for Dean.

“Oh, really? Which night was that?” Castiel asks conversationally, more curious than bothered.

Dean can pinpoint exactly. He can draw a graph with all the neat little arrows. He can answer all the whys, except of the biggest one.

“When Crowley--”

“Do you not tire?” Castiel cuts in, bored. “How many times will I yet hear Crowley before you stop?”

“When you saw what he’s done. You knew how important they a--” Dean manages to stop himself in time, hopefully careful enough not to raise Castiel’s hackles, “but all you did was to come back with a grand scene of swooping my ass into your arms of salvation and laid the exact same _or else_ on me, just with glitter hearts painted on it. That’s where I start counting. Every single thing that happened next - Sam, Ellie, your bestie Balthazar,” Dean enumerates, then shrugs. “I didn’t even have it in me to be surprised because the guy I knew as Cas was a lie. So that thing? Canceled.” He smiles, bitter.

Castiel grimaces at him, he loses interest in his bloody steak plate and his gaze hardens, zeroed in on Dean. But it just adds to Dean’s fire instead of putting it out. He sees red now. Next time he opens his mouth, he just can’t shut up.

“Before that, you were wrong, you were naive. Even if you were desperate, now it doesn't matter. I don't care. But what you did was pulling full on psychological warfare on me, using innocent people I love! Using innocent people I had to leave, because in the very end I was enrolled for your campaign, just didn't get to know about it. Why did you even bother nagging at me to stand behind, then stand down, if from the very start I was dancing exactly like you needed me to? And you know what? Fuck that, too. You can do with me all you want. Maybe I had it coming, maybe I really owe you my life as you think I do, but to them you had no right. No right to add to their horror and use it as leverage if you could have stopped it, if it was all about your goal and if you planned to fuck Crowley over since day one.”

When was the last time he even got to say so many words? No wonder his throat is tired.

“That is rich, Dean,” Castiel snarls, all that patronizing softness washed away, true colors showing. “Weren't you the one to decide their lives for them? Weren't you the one to demand me to erase the very memory of you from the hospital and the whole cul de sac? Weren’t you, most of all, deciding their fates when you showed up sad and lonely and whimpering on that little doorstep and begged to be taken in? Didn't you know what always happens to those that come close to you? Didn't you, sweetie? Even Sam let you know, reminded you, but prey tell, you did what?” Castiel smiles, sinister and powerful, every note of his voice worse than ice. “So maybe, just maybe, since you at that point at least understood you don't know how to yield right, that you don't know how to stop barking and biting hands that are much, much bigger than yours, you shouldn't have crossed that woman's fucking doorstep, Dean!” Castiel thunders, throwing his fists at the table, making both Dean and every single plate jump.

And there Dean has it: clear and bright like the sun rays in the face of God, all the rustling of Castiel’s Jimmies, all his squirmy worms of wrath.

He also has the baby cry again, yeah thanks for that, asshole.

Inside of himself, he tries to coo it into comfort, hums some Zepp, things he doesn’t need thinking for. On the outside, he loses his shit and his shit’s shit. He out-yells the crying, the holy rage, the bullshit, the everything.

“You do not get to put this on me! You evaporated on me when I was at my lowest! When I had no one! When I thought you could be the only one to understand me, to know what I've been through, but you didn't even say goodbye. You just went to suck on the grand lollipop of power. You didn't need me anymore, not until I became useful for you again. Did you remember my face or was I just the vague concept that built your empire of excuses to become this? Did you even remember my name when it was not a tool? I remembered yours for that whole year and it kept spinning in my head like a fucking curse! All this time you were the only friend I've ever had and you kicked me to the curb. Lisa was to me what you never even aspired or tried to be. And maybe she's just human, but she loved me more than you just like to think you do. She didn't have to! She benefited nothing from me! I was a mess in her bed, I was a mess in her kitchen, I was a mess raising her son and everything I touched after eight p.m. smelled like whiskey! She deserved so much better, but she was there, she was patient and kind, she was something you will never understand. And I wish I wasn't in so much grief for that entire year. I wish I wasn't hollow. And just a word from you, dropping by to tell me Sam’s not dead, at any fucking point, woulda helped us both so much. I loved her with all I had but that wasn't enough. Now I'm the guy that hit her and, again, you know what? If you never left I would never be in her doorstep in the first place, gardener’s dog! Were you there with your doorstep open? Fuck you!”

God, that sounded like three combined Emmy culmination point speeches for like five different liberating movies. He’s glad that he at least remembered the fuck you for a wrapping because it would’ve been a waste of air without it.

The clank of silver against the porcelain is the loudest one Dean’s ever heard. It sends a chill down his spine just like his father’s bottle hitting the table wrong. He can read that all too well, the stages of anger in put down objects, its sizes. His fucking augury, if he has one.

This? Now?

Dean knows the distance between Castiel’s seat (which he is now vacating) and Dean’s bones is the only liminal space before a luxury edition of a smackdown.

This isn’t fury - fury never self-contains, and Castiel does, now. He doesn’t fly to Dean’s throat, he just walks there, quiet. The tiniest move of his wrist and all the shit on the table slides until it hits the ground.

His hands don’t squeeze him fury-hard as they manhandle (godhandle?) and lift Dean, but they hold like they own him and that’s worse, somehow. Turned around to meet him face to face, he sees nothing in Castiel’s eyes but his stern focus on efficiency.

He weighs Dean for a moment. Calculates his trajectory, whatever.

And then Dean’s shoulders and upper back slam into the table so hard his spine keeps ringing in tune with the static in his ears. He thinks he’s being pulled a little further up the table. Yeah.

And now he can’t see the chandelier anymore. It’s all Castiel, that white suit, surrounding him with arms and legs, trapping him in branches. The ice from his eyes falls into Dean’s chest. He can’t breathe.

“Do you listen to yourself? Sometimes?” Castiel asks. “Do you even know what your own point is between one nonsense and the other or are you just going loose on hormones and spill whatever ungrateful crap your tongue happens to bring to you? I’m sorry I didn’t hold your hand while you were raking leaves and whoring around with Lisa Braeden while crying, but I was busy ensuring you would have leaves to rake and a body to enjoy your grief and treason in! I was there on the frontline so you could have your picnics and your pity parties. I fought and gambled with things that weren’t mine to keep this world Apocalypse-free! You know all of this was because of you, so don’t you dare imply that I didn’t miss you or I didn’t care. I can’t believe your fucking audacity, Dean,” he groans, shaking his head and grimacing at Dean like he’s a bowl of shit. “You have exactly what you wanted. You have me. You have my undivided attention. The certainty I will be there when you go to sleep and when you wake up. And all you do is reject me. Am I not good enough yet? Was Lisa all that better?” he snarls through gritted teeth. “To make some light for that love I know you harbor, to give it to me instead of burying it down, is that too much I ask for, Dean?”

Bombarded with this, Dean waits. Until he’s sure no more words are going to fall. Until he can’t keep it in anymore, though he tries.

“You didn’t ask me, you just took it. Even though I kept giving. Even though you knew I couldn’t say no to you. I have you, you got that right. I have you fucking and burning me in my sleep because you don’t think I deserve to be waken up to sire you. I gave you everything. My yes, my bones, my brother, my life with Lisa, every single pound of my flesh. But I’m ungrateful? You created a scenario for raping me because my _yes please god fuck me in the_ _ass with all you got_ wasn’t enough for you.” Dean needs a moment now, to get his breathing in line. He doesn’t have that kind of time, judging from Castiel’s face. “Why did you do that, Cas?” he whispers broken and small because he just doesn’t even have it in him to care. He takes Castiel’s hand into his own. Shocked, Castiel lets him. He places that hand on his thigh, drags it around the skin to make him get it, make him feel what he’s done. “Why?”

In front of his eyes, instead of an answer of any, even violent kind, Castiel’s face in quick succession crumbles into all four out of five stages of grief and that…. That’s something that has Dean’s alarm bells ringing.

Castiel’s other hand goes to his forehead again and Dean tries to scoot away, even if it means falling off the tab--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all royalties for the baseball bat go to my bruh, babybluecas ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.**

Castiel catches Dean’s limp, fragile body before it can fall to the ground and get further hurt. Wasting no time, he flies both of them into his study, abandoning the table mess, not caring if his many wings expand the disarray upon his hasty exit. For Dean’s emotional well being’s sake, he hopes no one from the house staff dared to listen in or to see what went down. He’ll have to find a way to suggest Dean shouldn’t be making scenes around the public areas of the house and have that good advice stick.

He seals the office door shut with his power, with a shaking hand he pushes every single thing off the desk, not interested for now about the damage. There is clearly other damage, other mess, to tend to. Gently, he places Dean on the desk, takes a step back to try and comprehend.

Dean’s unconscious body lies in front of him stark and mysterious; the desk, this time, is more akin to a make do catafalque than a make do bed. There is something dark and accusatory in Dean’s silent, helpless slumber.

His accusations make no sense and they’re unjust but Castiel can’t deny his hand felt something more but the innocent, welcoming warmth of Dean’s thigh. His precious dove’s body has been touched, hurt. Has been accessed, even though only Castiel bears any and all right to keep and reshape it. He’s earned this well, beyond dispute, after all the sacrifices that paved the way to fulfilling his claim. It’s just not possible that someone not only dared but has also touched.

Not just touched, if Dean’s words are to be trusted. Even if they aren’t (as they often aren’t), his voice was, this time. His raw, desperate pain echoed through Castiel’s core and made the foundations of his glory tremble, a howling wind demanding to be heard. Ignoring that outburst, while tempting, would only make Dean more difficult and uncooperative in the long run; such a waste, considering how much progress there was already, in so little time. There is, as well, the more jarring issue of property trespassing - the very thought of something entering his Dean, his house, makes him boil with unforgivable insult.

And he wants - he demands - his name back. No, this isn’t how things are to be, this needs to be fixed.

Taking his suit jacket off and carelessly throwing it away, he circles around Dean, eyeing this offense with growing dismay.

Dean’s cheeks are still wet with tears. Castiel wipes them off, he wants none of that. He caresses the blush-warmed skin with his knuckles, sorrowful of the circumstance but to an extent relieved that at least now Dean doesn’t cringe or fight against the tenderness of his touch. His saunters downwards, yearning; deliberate in the dilatory path of its travel, hesitant of the full horror it may uncover beneath the modest dress chosen with so much love.

He undoes the knot which Dean tied one onto another until he ran out of ribbon to make more. Such a taunting child, always so eager to stick his tongue at the face of God, any God, especially his. Unraveled, Dean’s skin shines, not just with the beauty Castiel so fiercely adores, but with a mark of a vast, deep wound. Castiel presses his hand onto it and reads the memory of Dean’s body, it opens itself to him with no inhibition, with no shyness, begging to be seen and handled. Just like Dean when he’s pressed in all the right ways (and Castiel knows them by all of his hearts).

The soft, tender body screams about jaws, about bone gnawing. About them being left splintered and white like baby teeth. And then, the same mouth, hands just like these, remaking, re-molding, but perfunctory and rough, stitches of power all skewed and unclean. Far from pristine, far from soft, from like always. _My friend, too_ , it cries. _Then things barged in, they weren’t knocking. Not like you knock before you come and open, and come. Torn us into lacy curtains, into loose red threads. Braided us back anyhow, into anything, left still on fire._

Livid and devastated, Castiel places his hand on Dean’s abdomen, then lower; on the hidden place of his body that is only Castiel’s to seek relief in, and he finds that everything he was told is true. He withdraws, carefully puts the dress back in its place and fixes the bow. Lets his hand linger on Dean’s knee and just stares in hopeless anger. Tries to find an explanation, a step where he went wrong, a vital detail that he must have missed, but he sees none. Beneath his touch that turned into a possessive grip, Dean’s skin discolors but Castiel doesn’t notice, can’t notice, because his heads are in too many points in the past, too many places away, ahead, all over, and he sees countless things but none of them is Dean, none of them is the growing pressure on his knee.

A small, gentle pat drags him right back to the study, to Dean, who shouldn’t be moving at all. Dean, whose palm now rests on his, clammy and cold, unpresent. Castiel petrifies, but his eyes, every single one of them, dart to Dean’s face, watch the suspicious nothing happen for a long, unsettlingly stretched moment.

Then Dean’s lips move.

“He looks so serene when he’s like this,” comes a murmur. “You enjoy the view, don’t you? Getting to play pretend he still loves you the same.” There’s a wall of silence, now. Undeterred by Castiel’s threatening gaze, by his palpable anger tainting the air until none is left. “Hilarious.”

The voice is louder this time, sly and smooth in a way Dean’s isn’t. His body jolts upright and awake, stiff and unhuman like an animated corpse. His eyes snap open, it takes them a disgusting while to remotely focus and lazily drift towards Castiel’s quiet fuming. It smiles, appreciative, way too wide, threatening to make Dean’s face rip from the muscle strain. “Knock, knock!”

Castiel frowns, far from intimidated or even vaguely impressed. He extends his arm towards whatever this is and sends a small, measured surge of power its way, forcing the thing back down on the desk with a thud.

“Do not,” he snarls.

“You’re supposed to ask who’s there,” it groans in childish disappointment, clearly equally not affected by the blatant presentation of force, since it sits up again, bit more fluid in motions this time around, trying and learning how a body is meant to work.

“I don’t care. You will be gone. You will be–”

The look he receives is not just patronizing and belittling to the core. It’s old and knowing, terribly unfit for Dean’s face.

“What?” It huffs. “Eaten? Can’t eat the same cookie twice, dum-dum,” it stops mid-thought, reconsiders. “In theory, you can. But for the love of fuck, is it even worth it?”

“How did you get in here,” he states instead of asking because he is not, simply not, taking a servitutory position. Not now, not ever.

It rolls Dean’s eyes so hard for a moment Castiel is worried they’re going to stay like that.

“Just told you? Your hearing would get much, much better if only you pulled your head out of that ass of yours, you know. Ate things, didn’t bother to check the ingredients list. Ain’t it always the problem with you stupid babies? Sad for you, actually.” It smiles again timidly, with fake politeness. “Because we’re still inside you! So, as far as retribution goes, unless you know how to eat yourself, you can go and suck on these balls,” it says, pointing at Dean’s crotch. “Or the space where they once were.”

Castiel puts it in its place barehanded, pinning Dean’s head to the desk with his own.

“You, on the other hand, shouldn’t have touched that space, vermin.”

“O, tempura! O, s’mores! To be verminized like this by a lower form of creation! Woundeddd… not,” it cackles, voice grating beyond Castiel’s scarce will to bear it.

Castiel presses harder until it can’t or at least shouldn’t. Hopes it will make his point clear.

“Whatever you are, you’re trying my patience. Answer my questions and I’ll make it quick,” he promises, even meaning it, but only because he doesn’t have time.

“It’s all beautiful and kinky, sugar plum, but it ain’t us you’re hurting right now. Wrong bag you’re punching. If you break your plaything’s skull, you will only make things easier and funnier for us, so you might wanna step outta the water and dry your tits a little, Gizmo.”

Castiel presses once more, both for dominance and for good measure. Seeing how it gets completely ignored and deciding that the human body gets close to giving in, he lets go. His hand feels too empty and too idle in an annoying way. Itches for punching things until they listen. These things don’t.

“What do you want,” he growls.

It sits up, seemingly never bored with the stupid motion, and stretches Dean’s neck to the sides with enough fervor to make too many things in his spine crack louder than crumpled paper, the ugly sound of it crawling somewhere around Castiel’s teeth.

“This is going to be the beginning of a beautiful headache,” it comments, amused. “Oh, and, we might not have a PhD, but we think of a hematoma, too. Man, you’re gonna have to take a look at this later,” it hisses, badly mimicking pain. “Real nasty.”

“Answer me.”

“Or not. Or you can patch that up much later, your funeral,” it shrugs, visibly trying to dislocate Dean’s shoulders, but failing. It gives up, but only to smile cunningly and pursuit something else to annoy Castiel with. “Liked our Easter Egg, by the way? We know Dean did. Couldn’t take his pretty eyes of the damn thing. Neither could you, huh? We’ve been throwing hints like you’re done and you’ve finally got the memo. Quite an accomplishment since you’re really fucking dense. Well, not yours, you’re not the perceptive one, not at all. Seriously should have read your bible and not just wipe your dick and ego with it, angel.”

“I’m not an angel.”

“No,” it agrees. “You’re a comedian, willfully ignoring all the data of value. Your bi-pedaled starlet said you’re a joke but… tomato, tomahto,” it sprinkles it with a frown that is probably supposed to convey “whatever”. “All it matters, feathers, is that we’re the punchline,” it taunts, curling Dean’s hand into a fist and playfully hitting Castiel’s chest.

Castiel grabs it by the wrist and pulls. It has to either stand up or fall. It chooses the latter, ignoring any self-protecting motions of amortization a human would normally have. There is no grace in its landing, none. Castiel is pretty sure the fall had to bruise Dean’s face at least, but there’s no way to assess it now, since the damn thing purposely doesn’t lift Dean’s head from the ground. “Way to reduce your lifespan,” it mumbles from the floor. “Live a little. While you can. Live, love, laugh, something like that.”

“What was that supposed to mean,” he growls, empty of any patience by now.

“You want the cliff notes, the chemistry metaphor, or the bedtime story, sparkle?”

“I want you to get to the point. I want to know how you escaped me. I want you to, by all means, go ahead and be direct if you want to threaten me. Or is there nothing you can do that with, which is why you’re being loud but vague?” Castiel leers.

It answers with a cunning, challenging smile. It wears it with so much pride as if it wore a million dollar wedding dress and was just about to eat both the groom and all his previous lovers alive. This time around, as it sits up once more, every single movement of the body it stole screams with dare and confidence; an echo of power that Castiel hates as a look on Dean, it’s like spitting on his face. It seems to know that.

“The point is that we didn’t go anywhere, not yet, but we still took your poor little Rosemary here, had so much fun with him you’ll still have to do serious maintenance after that, and then we snacked some just because we could. Unlike you, we don’t have to grow a swamp of greater good-themed super holy excuses to do things—” it wiggles Dean’s eyebrows suggestively “—and to eat them. To be honest now, we do see why the old man canned us down before he went off on his butt-monkey painting spree. They’re so tasty it should be illegal? Is the whole species that yum or just your plump, juicy and soon round like an orange Deanie? Do you even realize how hard it was to stop your mouth from eating that all the way?!”

“My mouth?! You used me to do this?!”

“Not so much fun anymore when done to you, huh, mister One Ring To Rule That One?” it asks, everything painting itself on Dean’s face a textbook example of pure, undiluted mockery. “Geez, who do you think did all that, the ghost of last christmas or someone from The Village People? Course it was you, silly! Well, your form and ball gown you, not you-you. We have a feeling you wouldn’t manage to stop yourself from eating now and crying later if the time we spent in your celestial bowels just watching the drama is any indication. You really got issues, pal. But they’re a gift that keeps on giving. Literally, by the way, you know that? Not that we’re complaining. We are so not complaining.”

The level of blind pride and confidence is so amusing Castiel even pities it in a way.

“If you had spent enough of quality time with Dean, as I have, you would have known that the villains who overshare and talk the most always lose. And get killed.”

He carefully leaves out the fact that Dean made that remark specifically because of him.

“We know, we know.” It waves Dean’s hand dismissively. The body control still keeps being disturbing. He’s the only one justified in doing that and he has never, not once, misused or abused that power, but this thing is doing it just to frustrate him more. “We have eaten enough TV trivia soaked souls to get the idea just fine but even if we wanted to, we can’t feel worried. Not even God could kill us, so he had to lock us up and intentionally never tell you feathered idiots where he put us to avoid shitting his pants in case of a family reunion. Face it, what’s the best you can do? Write us a parking ticket for parking and fooling around between these two fine legs?” it taunts, waving Dean’s legs like a child. “Such good legs. Thanks for the biological sex lifting, by the way. Considerably more fat on this version. And we don’t like our meat too lean. The fat is just what makes it work, you know?”

“For this exactly you will burn. God is a coward and he wasn’t as insulted, as robbed. You made fun of my claim, desecrated my most important spoils of war, my beloved. He will not belong to you, not to anyone, not even to himself. For that alone I will can you down along with God. Have your idiotic reunion there and not in my conjugal bed. Not in my consort.”

”Come on, officer!” It whines, spreading Dean’s arms in mock hopeless begging. “It would be like getting to see Rome and not fucking the colosseum!”

Castiel finds himself cringing involuntarily. Still, decides to not bother with trying to explain why the colosseum should not in fact get fucked when in Rome.

“I believe you would need a special pass for that. One you did not get.”

“We did, though? Cause you let us in? Instant multipassport?” It huffs. “We’re the things that go bump in the night, so we went and bumped in the night, big deal. It’s literally in the job description. Can’t blame us for being what we are. Boys will be boys, something, something.” It shrugs. “Just leviathan things, you know. It’s the aesthetic.”

“Here’s how this is going to go. The only thing that bumps—” he even gesticulates to accentuate his point “— at any night, is me. Smile and insult all you want. I’m going to neuter you and send you all back in no time. I genuinely do not care whether you can be killed or not. I opened Purgatory once, I will do it again.”

For a moment it - they - look stunned. Really and honestly stunned.

“Can’t believe you air quoted the word bump,” they say finally, disbelieving, rapidly turning into hysterical. “You actually air quoted it. Oh God. Like, how does he put up with you? No wonder the orange is suicidal. We would be, too.”

“Are you done wasting air in this room yet?”

“We spent eons just staring at, mind you, completely inedible trees and we’ve never before seen anything this insipid.”

“Good,” Castiel says evenly. “Because you are about to go back to your trees,” he adds, smiling and readies himself for another flight. “Mind that.”

It’s the whisper which stops him, the change of air that it brings and the spark in Dean’s eyes, feral, old and completely serious.

“Here’s how it’s really going to go, birdlet. Better listen. Best comprehend,” the leviathans say, berating and dark.

“What.” Castiel sighs. “What now do you want to waste my time with.”

They smile, endless, endless, and with disgust, Castiel watches Dean’s face fail to accommodate and splinter under the weight of teeth.

“Are you perhaps under the impression?” they ask conversationally.

“What impression,” he cringes.

“Any.” Cryptic, sharp. But clearly not over. “Any impression you’re working under is taking you towards your sad little end and there is nothing you can do because it’s step one that got you dead. The souls? As much renewable as oil. Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

“Do you think I’m not prepared?”

“Ah, right! Your secret stash of souls! Your other secret stash of souls! Your other - other secret stash of souls! And then what?”

“Get more.”

“And then what? When you eat the whole heaven, entire hell, every single thing on planet Mudball-3? Then what?” they prod.

“I’m not going to eat the Earth.”

“What do you even rule after you eat all that? The Dean?” the leviathans muse on, ignoring him, exactly as if it was a given that he will, in fact, eat Mudball-3. “A while, maybe. But aside of a lot of last minute fucking, what then when that reserve wears off? Do _you_ remember the dogs, wiseguy? The iconic duo of hunger and cut throats?”

“Don’t you suppose that’s too much time ahead for you to be concerned about? Time that you don’t have here because you’ll be long locked away by then?”

“And until then? Between your genocides and temper tantrums, do we share custody? Say, we take the blessed box for little Andy or Jenny for a spin every other weekend, maybe move some furniture and bones around? You plug him out then duct tape him back while we chat over dinner? You think it doesn’t cost you things, puppy boy? Your biological clock is ticking and you’re kinda running out of spoons.”

“Yours ticks faster,” Castiel cuts. “My power can be conserved. Enough to keep you inept and quiet, as you should be.”

“Your leverage relies solely on the danger of your bitch fits. Orange’s gonna roll away to a happier place when you go docile. You sure you ready to risk that?”

Castiel smiles, confident but soft, washed over anew with so much love and pride for his little, little thing, the one that, lost in fear and dark, walks back into the cradle of his warm, careful hands, inevitably and always; there’s no other light for him to walk towards, they both know.

And Castiel knows better than to let that waste.

“No, he’s not. You don’t know him. One country is enough. A handful of people sharing the same space is enough. Just Sam. And in the meantime,” he muses dreamily because he can’t wait until that moment comes, “he will learn to love me again, even if it’s the last thing he does. I know how to guide him. Has this particular brand of needy forgiveness, more than convenient to work with. All the groundwork was already done for me. Waiting to use it as it was always intended.”

They look back at him with a mixture of amusement and pity that would have been annoying weren’t it for the beautiful prize spreading itself before him in his thoughts, so calming and delightful, honey for the heart.

“Was it not for the lack of an appropriate water dispenser in our hands, we would have sprayed you. The look you have on that fake human face is heebful and jeebful in plenties. If only Dean could see, if only he could hear what’s in store for him. You have this complex where you need him so bad to respect you, to be aware that you’re so much more than what you wear, need him to understand there are bigger things than the things that are already bigger than him. You think forgetting that and taking you as a sum of your visible parts that’s somewhere around equal to him gets him in trouble, don’t you?”

“Because that’s true,” Castiel says, fierce and pained. This is exactly how they ended up here.

With Dean thinking he could be the rose scaring tigers away with his crooked little thorns. That he could take Raphael and his army on his back like just another cross. That he and his brittle, dust made bones could stand by Castiel’s side, not behind him, on a battle like that and _mean_ something. They wouldn’t.

There’s only so much you can win just with attitude and spite, Dean. And not a drop of victory more.

Castiel loves that. Oh, so well, all too well — attitude and spite both, and all of Dean’s horses of willpower fire, strong, wrathful and unmatched, but… Castiel can crush it like a handful of flowers if he needs, like a bug, into nothing. Raphael could have, too.

Free will is a beautiful thing. But it only exists as long as it’s allowed. Enabled. It’s not that free. And maybe Dean was right that destiny doesn’t make the rules and get to wear the crown.

But power does.

Thankfully.

“Well, newsflash,” they sneer, yanking Castiel out of his thoughts. “And congratulations. He doesn’t see you as the sweet, quirky humanlike sweetheart anymore. You’ve been promoted to Big Bad now. He looks at you, he doesn’t see a face. He just thinks and thinks what’s below and he’s scared,” they laugh with lightness meant for an anecdote, not a personal failure of this format. “Will you show him now? The screamer that you pretend you aren’t?”

“No,” Castiel counters, word falling on the floor between them too softly for his liking. The thing grimaces at it as if it was made of rotting fish.

“If it’s because you want him to look at you when you fuck him, you can just make him, you know? You’re not, just not, going to get the real deal back. Or your name. Considering the astronomical size of the horse you’ve fallen off, you’re the biggest loser in this house. And you’re competing with a bunch of refugees, a comatose prop, and, your favorite, the blackmailed, pregnant, trapped abusee who used to think you hung the moon, once.”

“Shut up.”

“Not to go all porn cliche, but… make us.”

Castiel has heard enough. He grabs the leviathans by the collar of Dean’s dress and lifts them effortlessly, only to fly away with them without a word of warning. He throws them on the floor, this time stone and cold. They have mauled Dean’s face enough, anyway. Any pretenses about being delicate are futile. There’s a lot of healing and memory rearranging he will need to do soon one way or the other.

“Well that’s just some caveman shit,” they huff, getting up and brushing dust off the dress.

“Stay,” Castiel cuts it short and makes them. At least the ring doesn’t fail to do its job.

He glances at them once more and savors the offended look on Dean’s face so well paired with annoyed rude gestures and hissing because they apparently really liked being able to use legs. Well, this is where that ends.

He walks through the crypt and ignores their yelling, something about spoons, if he got it right. Castiel takes in his reserve of souls and decides to take in some more than enough to properly refill. He doesn’t want anything like this to happen to him again. And he feeds.

Buzzing with the high of power, he returns to the leviathan, satisfied and full of glory. They watch him, more amused than they have any right to be.

“This is the last I see of you,” he says, triumphant.

“With this use of power? You’ll see us sooner than you think, so sleep with both eyes open, bitch. Even at your best rate of stealing from your baby’s college fund already, you have what, like,” they muse, slowly counting on Dean’s fingers, violently and uglily breaking three of them just for the sake of drama, “two years left?”

“I’ll arrange your departure in much, much less.”

“Do you want to know how long it took God?” it smiles patronizingly.

“No,” Castiel reciprocates the insult. “Now go back to sleep.”

He snaps his fingers.

The old, old light wilts out of Dean’s eyes. His body sags and collapses to the ground.

Castiel takes care of it. Kisses it a few times as he works, his hands and mouth having all, but needing more, still.

Even these walls have to know: Dean is his.

  
  


  
  


 


	4. Chapter 4

Like an unexpected impact, the world crashes into him ruthlessly as he jolts awake right into what he can only try to describe as unfiltered panic of the _what the fuck is existing_ kind of flavor. The first few seconds it takes to adjust and get all the pant-shitting brain cells to stop fucking screeching always spectacularly suck.

But Dean is now functionally existing enough to remember and plain accept that this is the wonderful set of fleeting impressions he’s smacked with when he gets clocked out so fast, sudden and deep that he doesn’t even remember the gong hitting him in the first place. And that it’s completely normal and nothing to worry about.

What is definitely not normal and to worry about is the part about having to fucking snap awake from _nothing_. That didn’t feel like sleep. It was empty. Felt like shutdown.

Stumbling down the memory lane where a third part of the floor is still lava, he finds nothing okay and complete enough to let him draw conclusions regarding why he is currently in bed again. Shouldn’t he be in the kitchen if he was in the kitchen?

What did he even _do_ to earn this inconvenient super first class travel to the future?

In his head there is a hole, completely blank and void of any hints that could help him figure out what happened. He doesn't know where to start to get answers. Because starting with Castiel, who by the way is also here, being an ugly bitch and stares at him with wide concerned eyes that scream ‘is everything alright?’ definitely too loud and too clear, is not, just not, going to provide any answers he could use.

His answers, instead, usually provide: bullshit, pneumonia, tuberculosis, dadaism, and generally are the reason why people die of cancer and why Dean can't have nice things.

“Dean,” comes the voice that should shut up forever and ever and once and for all, “are you with me?”

As far as Dean's honest answers are concerned, this is a very loaded question he doesn't know how to answer without fifteen to fifty years of scientific research beforehand.

Like, is he?

If he's in the room with him, only body present, heart not, is he? Sounds like no? Or like Schrödinger?

If he still has some kind of butchered sentiment, some kind of mutated desperation and rotting but still breathing love that just won't fucking die no matter how many stones he casts at it — even no matter how many stones Castiel stupidly casts at it claiming he wants to accomplish the opposite — is he? Sounds like yes?

But if he hates him all the while, all the time, in every painful second, and with every ounce of his cat-boxed presence, well, is he?

Can he even consider himself awake, aware and conscious with a nope the size of a small underrated canyon, all filled with (rusty by now) _I don't know_ s in the place where his brain should probably be?

Sounds like he needs a drink.

“That depends,” he decides and elaborates not. “What the fuck?”

“I'm sorry,” Castiel says, sounding small and human and Dean ain't buying. “It's my fault.”

Yeah, of course it is, what isn’t in this economy? It goes without saying, but what the ever-loving fuck even happened that was Castiel's undebatable fault?

“I know,” Dean replies, all in ostentatious shrugging, without missing a beat, flat and mostly uncaring, to what poor Castiel visibly not winces but straight out flinches. So hurt, most likely, that it is so easy and obvious for Dean by now to put any blame on him instead of carefully taking it away and throwing it on his own spine.

Oh, this special offer is forever over, buddy. You screw something up, you deal on your own now. Be the big boy you yell you are. “But what I still want to know, honey, is what it was that you did to me that is your fucking fault now?”

“What I did to you?” Castiel begins part offended, part disbelieving, if the turmoil on his face is supposed to be a goddamn clue.

“Why else would I be forcefully rebooted, idiot? You're going to try and tell me I fell down some stairs while I was literally sitting at your stupid dollhouse table? Really? How dumb do you think I am? You know what, do me a favor and don't answer that.”

For some mysterious reason Dean is hell-bent on discovering at some convenient point, that seems to calm Castiel's sagging balls a little.

“No,” he says. “That's not what I meant, Dean. It's just painful to have you automatically assume I would hurt you on purpose without a reason.”

He looks very sad. For the record Dean is still keeping, for all he cares Castiel can go and look sad somewhere else. On Fiji, maybe. Unless it got smote while he was offline again.

It got really boring at this point. The long face, the how dare yous, the half-assed justifications. Like some fucking elevator music playing in the distance, all of it.

“Riiight,” Dean drawls and points a finger to a random spot under his eye. “And I have a tank passing through just here,” he smiles venomously, mockingly.

Castiel, very strongly, does not smile.

“What's the last thing you can remember, Dean?”

Definitely not the purely theoretical reason why he’s still breathing, putting up with this shit. Right now he doesn’t remember that one and contemplates performing repeated defenestration until death sticks.

“Why don't you find out yourself, creep? Because I still remember you do creep, you creep, so just–”

“Dean,” Castiel groans, insistent and stubborn and plain annoying. “Please, tell me what's the last thing you recall. I need to know how much damage there was so I can help you. I have to. I'm responsible. I shouldn't have punished you so deeply earlier today. Your body took too much strain, too much stress. You’re just human and I got carried away,” he admits soft and almost ashamed, which is so fake Dean finds it near hysterical. “But so did you,” he adds harder, harsher. And yeah, Dean saw that coming. “Please, Dean. Don't. Don't abuse my patience like that when you can help it. You make me do things I later come to regret. And for what? A concussion? Inhuman exhaustion? Missing dinner?”

Dean just shrugs again. This is too big a tape ball of bull to unmake so he doesn't bother at all.

“What makes you think I even want you to help me?” he spits instead.

Castiel winces and clenches his hands into fists around his stupid white pants. Clearly wants to do something with those hands, but decides not to. Dean patiently whatevers at whatever that is. The loathing on his face is made of stone.

“Dove, Dean, baby,” Castiel tries, his voice soft like mush and almost begging. “You don't want to walk around with white spots and confusion in your head. Don’t do that just to spite me. What do you remember?”

That’s like five moral lines crossed with three words in Dean’s book of Fuck Off, Clingy God and he’s not going to let that slide so easily even if it’s the last damn thing he does before his mouth gets matrix-like unmade or something.

“Don't pigeon me. Don't baby me. Don't even Dean me,” he snarls, pissed.

“Fine,” Castiel answers, ruthlessly cold and counter pissed. “Be that wise and kind, my consort of great value, and tell me. Now.”

“Soup.”

“Soup?” Castiel echoes. “Would you care to elaborate?”

“Are you always going to parrot the word soup back at me whenever I use it? Is this going to be a thing now? God, Castiel, please let's not make it into a thing, okay? I'm too tired and shit like that eats at my life span,” he complains. Castiel only cringes so the fate of soup being or not being a thing in the future for now remains unknown to Dean. “I remember you graciously complimented me learning so well and so fast and saying yes. Then I must have passed out, or so you say, so thanks for the lesson, bitch. Worked like a charm. Keep doing that more often and I’ll forget how to swallow and then you’ll be really sorry.”

Castiel looks like he’s _this_ close to storming off to rummage for some forlorn string of pearls just for the sake of clutching them so it could match the sense of scandal on his face. Yeah, unthinkable, Dean knows, the very thought of him not swallowing the ambrosia anymore, not even the best money shot could match that.

Or maybe he just hates it when Dean brings up sex outside of fucking and weaponizes it. There could be anything in Castiel’s head right now, but Dean can’t say that he cares what it is.

That offended expression, while tragically intense, is short-lived, as it immediately makes space for something much more blandly collected and scrubbed of all those not-so-sweet emotions Castiel clearly was reeling in just a moment ago. It’s too composed, too pleasantly neutral for Dean’s taste. Calculated and chosen, a solid ugly proof that Castiel can reign himself in whenever he wants, but simply never wants to when push is about to come to shove.

Dean’s favorite t-shirt question rises again from the dead. He would really fucking like to know why Castiel was so minutely pissed and why he held his chthonic horses instead of stampeding him as he’s so fond of doing. Dean doesn’t trust that kind of nice and cool, that kind of in-storm quietness Castiel’s suddenly gently benevolent face makes.

“Don't worry about that, Dean,” Castiel says, sounding as nondescript as only oatmeal standing too long on a counter could not-taste. “This won't happen to you again. I'll make sure of it.”

He reaches out to the inside pocket of his flawless white power suit and takes out a small notebook that surprisingly doesn’t look like it’s been bound with human leather, and a pretty basic dollar store pen. Maybe he’s on a budget. Or just likes to play-pretend in front of his flock that he doesn’t have a fucking datcha full of servants, french doors, real wood furniture and a cashmere-clad private whore and whatever the fuck Dean is also supposed to be these days. Dean knows a few nice places where that bic pen can go. If only it had any point to even try.

“Now, would you please write down the ingredients for me?” Castiel asks gently, unaware of the hypothetical threat to his asshole and arteries, and passes both pen and paper to Dean before he can even consider gracing that with a yes or no answer.

Dean guesses that the no wasn't in his options anyway, it seems. He lets out a heavy, tired sigh and proceeds writing the list down from memory. At least it doesn’t disappoint on making chicken soup.

“I’ve already sent Oksana after the chickens, I hope you don't mind,“ he informs, without looking up, aiming for placating and soft as he gives the notebook back to Castiel. “She was under my strict orders and I didn't leave her much of a choice, so if you want to punish anyone, that would be me. I set the thing myself. I didn't want her to see us fighting at the table and you getting handsy and punching me into understanding your mysterious ways. Or, you know, also getting handsy and screwing me on the table. I just wasn't sure which would follow, but I wanted to spare her eyes, is all.”

“It's fine,” Castiel tells him mildly and somewhat absent-mindedly as he runs his eyes over the list. “Neither of those things followed, though, did they?” he adds with a nick of snark in his otherwise peaceful tone. “Everything from your list will be easy to acquire. Looks like a very uncomplicated soup. Would you like me to stock up some more of this for the future, Dean?”

Sometimes actually, things that are less complicated, are better, but Castiel wouldn’t know that, would he? Not when Dean is in any way involved. The poster boy for Ockham’s razor and simple efficiency becomes a real slut for convoluted then.

“Sure,” Dean nods, slightly relieved Nadya is out of trouble for now. “If that won't be a problem to you.”

“None at all,” he assures, smiling easily and perhaps even honestly for once.

The gentle curl of his lips sets his eyes alight with something real, and, hating it, Dean buys it, this one. The smile radiates something kind, sane and almost human, so eerily far from Castiel's regular moments of joy filled glory which are just as real, but unhinged and asinine. Sharp three layers below their projected warmth.

Everything in Dean stumbles at that, it puts his hatred off it's momentum. A rare sight like this one sends out tiny, confused wisps of light; of hope that maybe somewhere deep at the core, under the dirt, the power, the pride, there's still the Castiel he remembers, the Cas he can and should save; that his mind got scrambled with, got butchered, and not simply freed from the filters and confines of limitations and inhibitions which Castiel shed easily and gladly like temporary skin, a cocoon to mothman his ass from or something. Dean doesn’t even know what. He’s at a loss. He’s at many, many concurrently experienced losses.

It's unfair because it reminds Dean of the good times, of the past times, and, on autopilot, his body aches to reach out to him, to the well known friend, tries to, craving for those kind sunlights as it used to do for so, so long.

Until it stopped, until it went to dirt like a castle made of twigs washed away by water.

And as his hand always stopped mid-motion last moment before it would be swallowed by Castiel’s orbit, before it’s too late, before it touches and the act can’t unhappen, it stops now, on the same muscle memory of shame. And it is then that Dean realizes he almost fell into that trap where the million-legged spider God would eat him.

He wants to chew his hand off, but the only thing he does now is to not let it linger idly and suspiciously in the air, so he retracts, far away from the general vicinity of Castiel's space and the warmth that would burn him in the end. He buries his hand in his hair, an innocent gesture maybe even feminine enough to Castiel's kinky delight. Dean runs his fingers through it not knowing what else to do.

It makes him think about Lisa, how her hair was always soft to the touch, otherworldly delicate beneath his fingers, scented like something heaven should be but isn't, all cascades of something precious and dearly missed. So impossibly different from the strands he's touching right now, clearly combed while he wasn't awake, but not as pampered and nice as hers always was. Simply clean: the coarse bare minimum making home for plenty of silver under the myth of still being young and beautiful, if, when not really his heart, at least the feeling of his fingers is to be trusted.

Everything about Lisa is constricting in his chest, wound ripped anew, he doesn’t know how or why, but it hurts, oh god, oh fuck, it hurts like it was yesterday, like it never shut and scabbed, like he’s been screaming her name and his throat is still freshly hoarse with it.

And he fears for her, more than ever, and he doesn’t know why. He bites the inside of his mouth til it numbs him, he composes his wrath and elegantly places it within the crevices of his body, like legos.

And he hates Castiel.

He can feel the trained careful disinterest wither away from his face like dead falling leaves, on the ground, into ashes, to make place for the hopeless anger in which his jaw twitches, fails to hold. Inside his mouth there are lions. Livid and hungry for blood and revenge, but he keeps them locked up and starving because he knows even too well that they would lose against Castiel's lions - larger, scarier and hungry for him and him only. He knows also they would slaughter and devour everything in their way just so they could eat him, pick his bones clean, and crush them, then start over again.

He will see it, he's sure, in Castiel's eyes any moment now, the exact second he catches up with the change of Dean's expression and decides he doesn't like it.

He never likes that.

So for now Dean tries to claw at something, at anything, simply to keep himself contained, in one place, instead of breaking shit all over the place in fits of unspeakable rage.

He grips at the fabric of his dress, loathes its softness and stares, seeing red, at his lap, at his legs which for some unnamable reason raise an alarm that whispers _lies_ at the bottom of his guts, at his too lean hands and all their strength stolen, at the subtle floral embossing covering him from being seen, and it kind of fucking hits him: something he didn't even think to consider before since he took it as par for the course with the whole house of crazy and horror crap, but actually he god damn shouldn't have.

Maybe he just let the atmosphere lull him a bit too much. Maybe precisely as Castiel predicted and marked in his conjugal calendar, he became compliant and not questioning soon enough. If he did, he's more than happy to correct that mistake now.

Because messing with his body? He gets, on some fucking abstract pragmatic level. That was fucked up and it had a fucked up point, but a point nonetheless. Gender swap makes babies, he gets that. He’s not irredeemably stupid. The god forsaken wedding dress on the god-too-present wedding day? He gets. It makes all the good church boys and girls swoon in hope and envy. It sells the exact picture Castiel knows his stupid bigoted flock craves, for it gives the picket fence, the Forever After, a lot of Republican support probably, and makes Margaret Atwood cringe, not that these two matter all that much, but okay, that's an attempt at advertising and good PR. It gets shit done, though Dean is inclined to debate whether that’s how it should be done in the first place.

But what the fuck about is Castiel's design of wrapping Dean up into these goddamn fucking church sunday dresses one after another when there's, more often than not, just the two of them to fuck, fight, and stare impassively at each other? When every single person in this house is perfectly and morbidly aware that Dean's not the woman Castiel paints him to be (or any other woman)? When right now he's probably the most hidden from the public eye loser to ever crawl the Earth and fail to die?

The way Dean sees it, this one move has no explanations that wouldn't at base involve the goal of Castiel popping himself nicer, harder, and nastier boners in accord to his eyes and heart’s desires, which no. Plain no, fuck no, and hell no.

Fueled solely by the holy trinity of that, Dean conquers his idiotic, crippling complacency which kept his tired ass glued to the mattress so far and he abruptly sits up on the bed just to grab the nearest thing which unfortunately happens to be nothing more than an empty glass haunting the bedside table. He throws it at the most distant wall, watches it fall to pieces and sink somewhere into the white, dumbass carpet.

Surprise, surprise, he doesn't feel any better. Maybe he should throw the other glass as well. Fuck it, the jug too.

“You're upset,” Castiel states, stern. The all-serious absurdity of it effectively enough stops Dean’s hand from going after Glass Two. Observation of the century, that. Point for God. Twenty more and he’ll earn himself a mean discount on a used Cadillac and a piano falling to his face from an extreme height.

“Thanks for the explanatory subtitles, Castiel. However I would manage to tag my feelings without them, using only that pigeon brain of mine,” Dean deadpans.

“I can feel the distress all over you, Dean. Not just see it,” Castiel points out, adding to Dean’s skyrocketing frustration. “You know that you can still call me Cas, right?” he adds, softer. Too soft. Dean’s chiseling his already artisan level of skill in invisibly retching. “You know that you can always tell me what's wrong? That you should? No matter what you think right now, this is the safest place for you. Right here. With me.”

“Actually, Castiel, I can't call you that. This is a privilege that you've lost,” Dean answers with absolute conviction, but cut him in half, fuck his ass tenfold and rip him into pieces, he can't even logically explain why. He just knows, the way newborn children know they need to cry for their mothers, that he did lose it irreversibly somehow, no take backs allowed.

“Lost? What do you mean: lost?!,” Castiel huffs, incredulous to the last smallest bone that he once hijacked and stole.

“I don't know, man. God giveth, God taketh.”

He shrugs, watching Castiel’s image of calm composure glitch briefly on his face into something else. Vengeful, weirdly, if Dean would bother to slap a name on it, but he doesn’t have it in him to care enough.

“You can't possibly deprive me of that, Dean. It's not within your capacity. You are not God.”

Last time Dean consulted the Bible, neither was Castiel, so maybe he shouldn’t be all that strict on what’s what.

“Is that so?” Dean asks smugly as he takes the jug and the glass from the bedstand, pours himself whatever bullshit that is in there and zeroes it down. Looks like it's the same orange juice from before. Okay, Dean can roll with that. “Well, I'm the Orange God now and I just fucking said so. There you go.” He smiles, layers and layers and multitudes of bitter, victorious contempt. “Happy now?”

“Dean,” Castiel cuts through the sarcasm with no preamble, everything in him, and about him, clipped, tensed, and on the verge of a new level of being Done With Dean’s Shit. “I'm warning you.”

“Thanks for the heads up, my favorite Sharknado bringing weather girl, fairest of them all,” Dean mocks easily, fearlessly, like he was born into doing just this. To some degree he’s kinda genuinely amused. Since, in the grand scheme of things, this is impossibly inconsequential and void of importance and yet, another Armageddon is about to come knocking on the door of his ass because Dean decided to add one extra syllable to the mix and keep it. That’s not just petty. That’s dumb. Which is exactly why Dean is not going to stand down. “Warn me and bitch at me and threaten me all you fucking want. My mind’s made up, Castiel,” he sneers, challenge and insult transparent in his tone, bold.

Castiel looks back right at him in morbid silence at that.

Dean has to admit to himself now, he’s been clearly underestimating Castiel so far.

For the first time he comes to understand, finally. Clarity and fear run through him in an electrocuting, painful chill striking at every fucking synapse he has, and he sees that Castiel is not just more than meets the eye, more than that weird dude with a sometimes convenient, but sometimes dangerous mojo at his disposal, a dude who also happens to have the unique thing where he can try to show off and ruffle the wings Dean can’t really see beyond a shadow-ish, non-threatening hint, anyway.

The look Castiel pierces him with puts all those nice and self-assuring theories right into the dump and shuts the fucking lid. Time to reevaluate.

_Cas?_ That was just humoring Dean, simplifying and smoothing edges on purpose. Wrapping it up into something friendly, sparkly and comprehensible: _Handmade By God Terrifying Entities For Dummies_ , but like, the cardboard chewable edition with pictures, for toddlers with brain capacity of dogs. Or a crib mobile playing a really fucking neat lullaby, shit like that.

Castiel isn't a dude.

Castiel even isn't, especially not anymore, from a comprehensible species, to start with. He's almost as old as dirt, skyscraper large, and he's a goddamn patchwork of all the shit that makes Dean’s skin crawl with disgust no matter how mundane beheading, burning or stabbing it has become by now. Castiel is a whole world of that, but condensed. Currently he’s also out of his mind and spectacularly pissed, because that’s the color you get when you mix entitlement with painful betrayal.

His glare is sharp as shards of glass, impossible to dig out from under Dean’s skin, and it’s plain _off_ in a way Dean doesn't even know how to describe, ‘cause it ain't exactly cold, ain't exactly burning, ain't exactly even here, but it's ripping him through somehow, all too focused and still, too predatory and unyielding; terrifying and not human.

That’s enough to scare him: there’s not a single part of Dean that understands how to reconcile _this_ with the face his heart memorized as the safehouse for his trust, a source of warmth, contorted and poisoned almost unrecognizably, but present, like a terribly, terribly bad leftover option at seeing the silver lining. Until now.

“I’m asking you to make it up again, for the sake of old friendship,” Castiel speaks, finally, after a too long, threat-brimmed pause.

His voice, all on the wrong side of calm and soft, matches the gut-twisting unearthly danger of his eyes down to the tiniest stitch.

Dean thinks about Illinois, now. He thinks about the noise that would break glass and make his brain bleed, would send him on his knees, panicking, weak, close to falling deaf, desperate to run to the edge of the world on all fours just to make it _stop_.

He wonders how the fuck did he even forget. It’s the absolutely fundamental thing about angels; about Castiel, most of all, especially in these beautifully improved circumstances of theirs: Castiel is not a person even if he wants to be one. At least not currently.

He literally is the absolute horror of unidentifiable screaming cutting through the void of the night in the middle of nowhere where no fucking sentient being has any right to be and scream its ass off, and just that. Just the abstract screaming, forever missing any understandable context. Ageless and endless.

And this screaming here thinks it loves him and it doesn't take rejection very well. Takes being repeatedly told to shut the fuck up and get over itself even worse.

It kind of raises the question now, in Dean’s suddenly fear-speechless head, on what fucking grounds did he even think that the burning, eyeful, haloed hydra with wings wouldn't eventually eat his face when it literally has been designed, programmed and equipped to eat his face?

Looks like mistakes were made, somewhere along the way, between one intimate, wistful blue-eyed smile and another; between one mouthful of trust and the next.

Too late to fix, too late to do anything at all, because it’s not like something has gotten broken here, nah — it never had a solid chance to be fine in the first place. Whatever weak ones Dean had to make it right, he wasted. Took baobabs for rosebuds just because he wanted them so bad. Now he keeps losing and losing.

He tastes, staring back at whatever the fuck his intuition thinks the true face of God is, a whole new flavor of dread all over his mouth, and a different sort of weary disappointment is coiling in his bones this time around, more vast and heavier, hell-bent on finally pinning him to the ground.

But he knows both, all too well, and a different shape or size of things isn’t going to stop him. One more nightmare, but he still wields the same answer.

Dean shakes his head.

“No.”

To his genuine surprise (this time), aside of Castiel letting his feral face unnaturally retract into simple but bone-crushing deep disappointment, nothing happens. At least nothing that strikes Dean down like thunder and kills him on impact, which, by the way, is also disappointing.

“You’re insufferably childish, Dean,” Castiel comments dryly. “Get yourself together for once.”

“Me? Childish?” Dean complains in disbelief. “Full offense, but you're such a baby you still got only twenty baby teeth up your baby mouth.”

“Try more like two million,” Castiel bites back menacingly. “This bravado of yours? It's going to wear off rather sooner than later. You will come to your senses eventually and, believe me, the less you fight right now, the less you will later hate yourself for being so stupidly stubborn.”

“Wow. Thanks for the input, Criswell, you truly are amazing,” Dean snarls, truly, in fact, amazed by this idiocy. “You sound just like someone who doesn't know me for shit. What show you even watching, man? Took thirty fucking years of non-stop slaughterhouse for me to become the thing you mean by coming to my senses,” he says tiredly, equally defiant and plain bored. “You're not that patient, you loser. Never been. Best of luck, hugs and kisses.”

“Fine,” Castiel snaps, not that he has a legit reason to other than being a sore loser. “Let me remind you of your road so far, my friend.”

Before he can even begin to enumerate, Dean is already half elsewhere in his head, wondering if this is going to take long, if he will need snacks, and how the fuck can he obtain a can of coca-cola in here. Brand specific, because monster rugrat apparently has some serious beef with pepsi and won’t settle for less than perfection. And honestly? When bad food preferences are involved, Dean can respect that.

“By all means, go ahead, but only if you promise me a can of coke when you’re done.”

Castiel’s current face is sponsored by something that vaguely looks like _I would choke you, but you’re too pretty to just waste_.

Promises, promises, something-something, no parsnips. Too bad. Dean can’t help but low key keep counting on pretty not being good enough one day.

“All things considered, Dean, it didn't take you that long to pack your trash and cry for Michael, whom, as you kept wailing, you hated too much to even think _yes_ about anything when he was near your hemisphere. You've shown me the door after a completely unnecessary drama that put both Sam and the Braedens where they are now, but a few days later you were here. And how long ultimately did you manage to protect that fragile virginity vow of yours? Forty days?”

“Did you just say _whom_? Like, in a normal person-made sentence aimed at a human?”

“Dean, this is not time for joking,” Castiel tries, pity bright and clear in how his name was invoked. He seems to completely ignore the fact that Dean’s not joking. “Alastair was just a demon. He’s the one who didn't know you for shit, as you say. I know you. Everything inside you and about you. The list of victories on this silly little war you're trying to wage is already long on my side and empty on yours. You think I'm going to need years? Really?”

There's very important context Castiel is either missing or just omitting, which is why no matter how many battles he's about to win, he’s still going to lose the war. But Dean is not going to fill him in on this. First rule of Married To Monster Club is not giving it ammo.

“That’s great, I’m proud, now where’s my can.”

“What can?” Castiel asks, irritated.

“Of fucks,” Dean answers, just as done. “I think I've lost it somewhere.” Jesus, was the idiot even listening? “Of coke, man. I just asked about it.”

“I have something better waiting for you. If you feel well now, follow me,” Castiel says cryptically as he’s getting up to leave this curse of a room.

This sounds bad, but still beats staying here.

“I don't have Twitter. Or internet. Or a phone. Or free will.”

Castiel sighs, but doesn't turn around to throw a punch or a bitchy remark at the shiteating, bitter grin on Dean’s face. Hard to tell if that's a win or not.

“Come,” he demands instead.

“Oh, you love making sure I always do in the end,” Dean groans, but follows out, the tails of Castiel’s white, preened suit stays a sore spot in his eyes.

Shining still and burning through as he closes them, like sun-brought damage.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Another highest mountain to climb and another absolute and deafening nothing to find on the top. Dean knows where these stairs will take him, so it's at least this much of a consolation prize that he isn't very likely to walk into another dimension all out of the sudden.

Nadya must have passed the memo all around just as she promised, because whatever glimpses of human life forms he catches out on their way up to the quiet room on the attic, it all scatters out quick, soundless, and efficient. Luckily, Castiel pays none of that any attention, too busy joyfully orbiting around whatever magnificent plan he is currently in the midst of executing. One disaster to worry about less, so there’s that.

Upstairs, Dean looks around carefully and weirdly misses the sight of dust dancing in the peak of daylight, keeping him company, marking the room as well-lived once. It's too late now, he must have been unconscious for quite a while, because all the roof windows let in is muted and blue. And the blue takes reign.

He hasn't been here in what feels like a lifetime. This is where he watched the sun die alongside him every evening, this is where he prayed, where he planned, where he was stupid enough to still hope. This rounded, flower-crowned, sofa carried his weight for hours where he sat alone and small, but at least he still owned the skin that held every single bone, also formerly his. Here, he was the bird perched at the top of its cage, yearning for the sky, just windows away, almost within reach.

This is the place where Castiel would simply leave him be, let him marinate in pity as long as Dean needed; a sanctuary he never bothered to cross, didn’t need lines of salt nor holy fire to keep himself at bay. All the protection sufficient was that he didn’t think to care. He does now, and Dean doesn't quite know what to do with the wilted sentiment he should now probably throw away, since it will do him no good.

Castiel motions at Dean to sit down and walks past him with comfortable ease, as if he came here everyday since the dawn of time, from the very moment the real God shaped him from stardust and sent him into the ether precisely for this. Dean takes in the details, checks the insignificant changes that were made since his last visit; mostly the same furniture slightly moved around in no perceivable goal. The only thing that stands out and doesn't fit is, Dean’s eyes shit him not, a fucking telephone crowning the sofa adjacent table.

While Castiel is happily occupied bustling around the little chest of drawers in the corner and prepares his heavenly surprise, Dean takes his seat with caution and inspects the sore thumb of a deal with much more scrutiny and suspicion than any phone should probably inspire. Looking at it, Dean wonders if it's going to ring any moment now because the nineties will call and demand their rightful belonging back. It has a cord, for fucks sake.

Not even the smell of freshly brewed coffee, one that he almost forgot, manages to drag Dean away from this stupor-like bewilderment. The sound of porcelain being placed on the table and the inevitable comeback of Castiel's crowding presence does. It makes threat, after all. And threat beats coffee.

He sits next to Dean, too close for comfort, and puts his arm around him, palm resting where it did, once, to the point of burning. He does it like it's something they used to do since always, like it's in not just their habit, but in their nature to sit hip to hip, aligned; sharing gentle intimacy and evening treats.

Nice lie, nice pie on his plate, but no, they’ve never been any of those things, certainly not together.

Castiel looks at him expectantly, timid smile, too few inches away from Dean’s skin. Appears to be very proud of himself, but then again, he often does.

“This some kind of visual art performance of you making a booty call right now?” Dean blurts because he honestly doesn’t understand what this is about.

“That’s your first gift, isn’t that obvious?”

“Vintage! I love it, thank you,” Dean says, desert on fire dry.

Castiel matches him in excessive drama and rolls his eyes so hard his body follows and almost rotates.

“I’m not giving you a paperweight, Dean—” yeah, cause Dean doesn’t even have any pap—“I’m giving you a phone call.”

_A what?_

And, one more time, for the audience:

“A what?”

“Your spring, Kore. Enjoy yourself,” Castiel explains, offering a smile Dean doesn’t trust even half as far as he could throw it. He gestures at the treats, just in case Dean didn’t notice them. “Enjoy yourself some more.”

Dean stares, incredulous, in this particular order, at: Castiel's smug, self-congratulating face, at the telephone, at his assigned coffee cup, and back at Castiel.

“You want me to call Batman or the Ghostbusters with that thing? The fuck do you even want to bust — your own ass?”

“Dean, put your bitching on hold, pick up the other phone and just find out already,” Castiel says, trying to hide the near nervous breakdown experience in his voice.

Dean, on his end, could really use some of that coffee for extra courage, but he doesn't think he needs his mouth scorched just yet, so he decides to go without.

“I hope it tells me I'm going to die in seven days,” he comments with a slightly less shiteating grin than his regular ones, probably because he doesn’t feel all that cocky right now.

Aside of Castiel's curious and maybe minimally amused gaze, he receives no hints, no feedback, no nothing.

His hand hovers above the receiver unsurely, because this is not exactly something he's got a good feeling about. From his experience, the more inconspicuous an innocent, benevolent thing looks, the worse it turns out to be when paying time rolls around.

“Don't worry, baby. Whatever this big bad thing on the other end is, I will protect you,” Castiel deadpans, smiling in a really insulting way.

If this was meant to be a trick to rile him up, it fucking worked because, Dean finds himself holding the receiver by his ear, just so Castiel would be a) wrong and b) very much actively shutting himself the fuck up.

“I will skin you,” Dean whispers in honest promise.

“Of course, of course, but direct your focus right there. You don’t want to miss your chance.”

There's the signal alright, and it takes its sweet, sweet while to have Dean choke on his own adrenalin, but then it cuts into quiet, and if there's anyone picking up just now, they’re probably comparably confused, since all Dean gets is the noise of someone breathing in what feels like extremely palpable tension.

Jesus, he always has to make the first move, doesn't he. Here goes nothing?

“Residence of Ted Bundy and Judy Garland, how can I help you?”

This has to be the dumbest thing he’s ever said, but, admittedly, he didn’t think it through that much.

“Dean,” comes unmistakably Bobby's voice, shaken and worried in a way Dean hasn't heard in a long, long while. “Is that you? How are you even calling?”

“Do I really sound like someone confusable with Christine Chenoweth all that bad?” Dean whines in true offense and he starts glaring at Castiel, who has not moved from his spot and has also not stopped observing him with subtle but also wiseguy-ish smile of his own making. ”It's complicated,” Dean doesn’t even bother to try to explain. “I'm on like five minute parole or something. I'm just as dumb as you are now, Bobby.”

Dean can hear Bobby let out whole lot of heavy air from his chest and he thinks a few months-held stones of worry followed too, metaphorically or something.

“Was this idjit trying to give me a heart attack by making you call from a number consisting of literally one hundred forty-four thousand sevens?!”

Dean doesn't even know how to answer that. Or how exactly Bobby clarified that. He just sighs into the phone, because really. The joy of midlife crisis sprinkled with biblical complexes is just that breathtaking.

“Of course he did that, the nutjob that he is, ignore that,” he says lamely. “I didn't know. Sorry.”

“How are you holding up, son?” Bobby asks, soft, concerned, “How’s he treating you?”

“I'm peachy. I get to feel like Kirstie Alley in _Look who's talking_ all the time.”

“Which part?” Bobby says, either to humor him, or maybe just because he doesn't yet realize that it’s nonsense to in any way engage with a statement like that.

“I don't know,” Dean replies and grimaces in an expression that represents the same sentiment as its spoken counterpart. “In which part is John Travolta the angry God that behaves like a near human embodiment of the phrase _moist penetration_?”

Now that’s a sentence he can’t un-use and probably should have taken to his grave.

“All of them, Dean,” supplies a voice he definitely didn't expect or want or need to hear and probably Bobby didn't either, if his angry, surprised “Balls!” hearable in the background is to be trusted, and it sounds honest enough. “Don't you read the papers, darling? Oh, right. You probably don’t. Do you even still have eyes, God’s favorite tartlet?”

“Go drink some diarrho—”

“Crowley,” Castiel cuts Dean off with the exact brand of courteous sweetness that is nothing else but a harbinger of death. “I'm amazed to find you here, of all places. Fascinating how it's so evil when I collaborate with you, and yet so pure and heroic when Bobby does that. Hello, Bobby, by the way. Oh, and, do tell me the secret of your moral-shifting magic I’ll have to try it out sometime.”

“Hey!” Dean barks, uselessly covering the receiver with his hand. “Do you mind?” he nags, trying to scold Castiel with his pissed off glare, but to no avail. “It's a private conversation, dude.”

“I'm just drinking my afternoon coffee with my beautiful husband in our common house, Dean,” Castiel chirps and takes a sip to drive his bullshit point home.

“Well, go choke,” Dean snarls quietly. “What the absolute fuck is going on there?” he asks Bobby much louder. “Tell him to piss off, we don't need that kind of damage right now.”

“No, no, by all means, go ahead and have your little pow-wow,” Castiel assures, more amused than any human laws of common decency allow. “It makes it so much fun when you tiny ants try, whatever it is that you’re trying,” he hums in mocking appreciation. “What is it, my dear children, that you’re trying?”

Dean turns his head to face Castiel directly and it costs him five billion dollars and eight ponies to not clock him in the face regardless of the lack of a practical point just because he has it due.

“You really don't have to sit here and eavesdrop, asshole. You don't even drink coffee,” he accuses instead.

“You don't have to be on the phone, Dean,” Castiel bites back mildly. “And yet you are,” he reminds him. “Unless you wish to hang up?”

“No,” Dean says right away. “Bobby, you still there?”

“Yeah. Still here. I'm not going anywhere, I’m not leaving you, Dean.”

“Good. Thanks,” Dean says, and really means it. He feels washed over by a normal, human, familial warmth he was scared he forever lost. Holy fuck. It’s like he’s high on this shit now. High as a fucking horse. Fuck, that’s nice. But hey, business. “Trash can still there?”

“You wound me, love,” Crowley whines, muffled but sadly decipherable enough.

“Crowley,” Castiel reminds him of his presence, polite but sharp and he moves his hand from Dean's shoulder to his thigh, where he possessively grips, jealous, hot, too sure of himself, and in every way unrelenting, definitely too close to Dean's poor private parts. “Please, love yourself and stop,” he comments with pity and disgust. “Do you want to die?” he asks conversationally, which, to Dean is a whole new degree of uncannily weird.

“Maybe don’t ask him and just kill him,” Dean points out.

“Pumpkin, please. Can’t we all just be frie—”

“Nonsense, Dean,” Castiel says, loudly talking over Crowley. “He’s a too useful pest to go to waste. We need assets like that. You might be fooled into believing he really is on your side, but the beautiful moment he finally understands you don't stand a chance, he will wrap himself back into my flag. Isn't that how you roll, Crowley? Your survival instinct has proven to be stronger than all those generic loyalty-blinded demons’. Well, most of the time. You seem to malfunction when it comes to my consort’s body, so allow me to remind you one last time,” Castiel warns coldly. “It is mine, he is mine, his soul is mine, and all of these things belong to me. Looking at Dean belongs to me. Liking what I see belongs to me. Making any use of that belongs to me,” he snarls. “I appreciate your services, but don't think I am above replacing you with a shit on a stick if I'll have to and carving you into Christmas decorations for just one more vaguely lustful transgression.”

“That’s... festive,” Crowley finds his tongue to comment after a small, but an impossibly awkward silence on everyone’s end.

Which is, perhaps, the most of a team effort they had so far.

“Are we clear?” Castiel insists, because duh, there is no ‘team’ in ‘God’.

“No, we're not, actually,” Dean spits, somehow both cold as ice and fuming. “How fucking dare you say shit like this three inches away from my face, you fucking two faced worm!? I don't even care anymore where you get your romance reference points from, but God, there should be a movie about people not being things, not being property for breeding, not being trophies! And in the end the girl should get to shoot the rapist asshole in the face, and I swear, I will make you watch it until the message sticks. I will fucking shoot you in the face, man.”

For a heavy, danger-swollen moment, no one, not even Castiel, dares to speak. Dean tries to regain his breath and leftovers of dignity and composure in the scarce meantime. But it's going poorly, of course.

Crowley, of all shits, is the first to speak.

“For what it's worth, I'll try to pull some Hollywood strings for you, Dean. Any particular casting preferences to take into consideration?”

“Nah, thanks,” Dean says, out of fucks to give at the moment regarding why he is even having this conversation. “Just make sure there's kick-ass cars and guitars in it.”

“We have a deal, then.”

“I wish you haven’t used that word.”

“We'll talk about this later, Dean,” Castiel promises gently, looking him deep in the eye, but Dean looks away, uninterested.

“I'd rather the fuck not,” he states. “Can we change the subject? Like, ideally to the reason why you're having a congregation with Crowley? I mean, what the hell, Bobby?”

“Exactly,” Castiel adds.

“Shut up, you,” Dean barks in clear warning. Gets a sip of his own coffee since his throat is just that torn now. Oh, great, it’s lukewarm. “Great, now it’s cold,” he complains. “And weak as shit. Is that insult in my cup because I’m pregnant!?”

“I’ll go get you a new one,” Castiel says and gets up in a bullcrap attempt at reconciliation.

“Go to hell.”

“This is getting repetitive and, frankly, boring.”

Dean can hear the coffee-maker wake up and hiss, just like he would love to do as well.

“Then put your head in a bucket and go away, so you won’t have to listen to it anymore.”

“You should be more grateful,” Castiel says, only a tiny bit bitchily, in a very _oh, by the way_ manner, when not much later he comes back, new coffee in tow. “Do you want milk with that?”

Sitting down again, he takes a much more distant spot. But he’s undeniably still fucking here.

“How do I even tell you to fuck off in whatever language that is most native to you these days?” Dean groans, mostly flat, void of ire. Castiel only frowns in response. Dean returns his attention to the phone, then. “So?”

“We’re looking for a way to get you out of here and kick the evil overlord off his throne,” Bobby says.

“Color me su—”

“Don’t,” Dean hisses softly. “And?”

“We have a solid shot at a successful co-operation and a helping hand, but we can’t tell you much on details, even without the idjit Godstiel within hearing range.”

“That’s nonsensical, language-wise,” Castiel grumbles to probably no one in particular, since Dean isn’t even pretending he’s listening.

“And why is that?!” Dean snaps.

“Because, the not-mine, most aesthetically unpleasing amoeba I’ve ever met and never laid an eye on, Dean, anything of value we could try to tell you, the demon-stealing whore could easily extract from you without you even knowing!” Crowley yells, and then, a micro-sized in its lifespan, albeit very pointed silence falls.

Dean’s too preoccupied processing the wording to address the presented issue of how, exactly, he is supposed to understand the demon stealing. Right now, he can’t decide which is worse: the fact that Crowley can make this reference, the fact that he, Dean, recognizes it, or the fact that it can be concluded they both have watched the same porn at some point?

“He’s right, you know,” Castiel offers matter-of-factly.

Or that.

“Listen, Not-Pumpkin,” Crowley goes on. “What I can and have to pass on while I’m not yet a handmade Christmas tree, is that you have to, and I quote, prove worthy, then prove worthy.”

“What the hell does that even mean?!”

“I have no bloody clue! I’m merely the carrier pigeon!”

“That would be me,” Dean remarks. “I’m the pigeon.”

“Christ, Dean, pay attention!” Bobby laments. “For now, you can’t stick your head out too high. Don’t piss him off too much. You need to be in his best graces, that’s the only coherent hint we were being given on step one.”

“What the fuck for?! That sounds insane! Like an opposite of a plan! Sounds like fuck shit!” Dean rants.

“I love this plan. This is my favorite plan. You have all three of my blessings,” Castiel concludes. “Wonderful advice, Dean. Please, take it. I promise you won't regret.”

“I promise I will de-sack you.”

“Before you skin me or after?” Castiel asks pleasantly. “Where do we squeeze in shooting my face? Indulge me and sit on it first, I’d like to have my last meal.”

“This is not, just not, how you get someone to let you eat them out. Gross.”

“Luckily for me, you don't have to let me, do you.”

“Oh, honey, you are gravely mistaken if you think the church yes I slapped you is that all inclusive by default.”

“You have also sworn to offer yourself to me, seek my warmth, accept my compassionate love, and surrender. So surrender.”

“Yeah, that. I lied, bitch. Here’s your surprise for today.”

“Calm down, Dean! Didn’t you hear that?” Bobby nearly whispers through gritted teeth. “Look at the sheer size of his ego. He’ll put you on a holy pedestal just to show you off around the playground,” he points out, which, true. “You need that kind of power. For step two,” he adds in blatant conspiration, even quieter.

“I can't help but be curious: is step two the one where Dean finally surrenders?”

“I'm saving that surprise for the series finale.”

“Well, you have to make it that far, first,” Bobby reminds him. “And we don’t even know what we’re dealing with right now, Dean.”

“Just God being God, making the new world order and giving his hostage-husband a cunt cause he's not gay? At least that’s the vibe I’m getting,” Dean suggests. “Demented? Yes. But complicated? No.”

“No, Dean, it’s not only that. Were things ever so easy?” Bobby asks tiredly and Dean’s gotta say, from where he sits now, he doesn’t see that as anywhere near the definition of easy. “There’s things happening all around the goddamn world you don't get to see or hear even on underground news. Hunters and leftover monsters only have some scraps they got no idea how to make sense of and we only know that because Crowley is Crowley, and—”

“And it's my job to know,” Crowley supplies with pride. “That’s how we all still live!”

“No, that’s because I let you,” Castiel comments boredly from above his stale coffee.

Dean can feel Bobby's endless frustration from here. Kind of shares it, too.

“All I'm saying is, Dean, Cas is plotting something he doesn’t want anyone to know about, especially you. But he doesn't leave loose ends behind. We have squat on what he's stealing or why, but it’s safe to make an educated guess it’s old, bad, and not just souvenirs. So if you could kindly keep a more focused eye on—”

There’s a violent pull, there’s noise. There’s Castiel standing right behind Dean with an annoyed face and a ripped out, faintly smoking, receiver wire dangling from his hand.

“Sorry, Dean,” he says lightly with a non-matching very sad frown. “I think you drove into a tunnel.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean spits, self-amazed he still managed to dig out real, living disbelief outta his tired bones. He really thought that well is much past dry at this point.

But isn’t his fucking life just full of surprises today in particular.

“It seems like I have to take care of something urgent, now that your friends brought it to my attention,” Castiel says, ignoring Dean’s nearly physical form of seething. “Try not to collide with anything and drive your options safely while I’m gone, alright?”

He leans in over the sofa and takes the kiss he wants, because he wants. Chases after Dean’s mouth when he tries to turn away. Doesn’t let his jaw go until he’s done. Marvels for a moment at the sight of Dean’s furious, kiss-tainted face, before he smiles, all appreciative and content.

“There’s nothing to be upset about, dove. I killed your phone, not your gossip buddies.” Weirdly, it doesn’t make Dean all perk up in sunshines, so he still keeps his bitch-face plastered. “At least accept this token of my love,” Castiel says, snapping his fingers.

He disappears with the ugly flutter of those wings of his before Dean can even try to think of a remark.

On the table, there’s a can.

That’s…. That’s Dr. Pepper, not coke.

 


End file.
